Fraternité
by Gondolier
Summary: Something sinister is stalking Christine, and only one man can save her. As they uncover deadly secrets taken to the grave, they find that the greatest mystery of all is the human heart. A tale of intrigue, love, and redemption.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of all things Phantom, such as Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters, own none of them.

**Side Notes:**

Readers, fear not – this story will hopefully please both E/Cers and R/Cers. Sadly, no E/Rers

**Prologue**

_**Paris, 1884**_

A lone figure walked swiftly along the side of the looming building, her cape billowing around her ankles from a sudden gust of wind. She shivered slightly, clutching the dark wool closer to her throat as she made her way to the corner of the cracked path. She turned her graceful neck to glance further down the way, peering out from the inside of her scratchy hood, watching for any tell-tale signs of movement.

She ducked around the corner and tucked her small frame into the stone, tilted her head slightly in her hood to listen for quiet footsteps, rustling leaves, anything that might warn her to flee. Her heart was pounding so heavily in her chest, up into her throat, that she was certain that _they_ would hear it. How long had she been pressed against the wall…minutes...hours? _Flee…go now, one foot in front of the other. There is no time to dilly-dally in dark recesses, waiting for_ – waiting for whom? She didn't even have a face for _them_.

The lady heard nothing. They had not followed her. If they had, she would surely have known it by now – they were quick and ruthless, as she had come to discover, tragically, over the past few days.

"_Perri, le cher petit,"_ she sighed, softly shaking her head against the vivid images her mind conjured of the little stable boy that had served as a warning to her...

His sad eyes peered up to her with a watery expression once more, shyly asking to touch one of the long curls that cascaded down her back. Laughing, she knelt before him, mindless of the dirt and straw of the stable floor mussing her fine riding habit, and shook her silly head to loose a few curls. He let out an embarrassed laugh as he tugged on the lock, watching it spring up again. "_Go find your Maman_," she smiled, patting his head as he scurried away like a little field mouse.

He had stumbled upon _them_ somehow, she was sure of it, and had paid with his life.

Mopping away the tears that threatened to glide down her cold cheeks, she dashed to the side entrance of the building, praying that it was unlocked.

"_Thank God,"_ she breathed as the door gave way. She swung into the opera house, and carefully shut out the cold, night air of October.


	2. A Cry for Help

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of all things Phantom, mainly Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

**Side Notes:**

Readers, fear not – this story will hopefully please both ECers and RCers. And no, not at the same time, silly! As for EOWers, well, you'll just have to wait patiently in the hall for a different writer to come along (Ha!)

**

* * *

A Cry for Help **

Christine didn't like the cold nights that came so early this time of year; especially blustery ones like this. She whirled the damp wool cloak from her shoulders, sending little pellets of rain scattering across the marble floor, rolled it up, and tucked it under her arm.

Cautiously, she took a few steps into the dimly-lit hall, making her way up to the ballet mistress' quarters. How long had it been since she had seen the stern face of the woman who stepped in to guide her after her father's death? Weeks, perhaps? Surely not months. With a start, she realized that she had not spoken with Madame Giry since June….that beautiful, warm June day, with all the lovely lilies and posies, the aristocracy of Paris turned out in their finest black to bid farewell…all the false tears they could muster, gracing their cheeks in mocking sympathy…

She remembered another black day, several years earlier, with no flowers and no mourners, save one. A day of silent mourning for her lost maestro...

"Erik is dead." She had read the small, nondistinctive letters as if it were her own death sentence; not a physical death, or even an emotional one – she had her Vicomte to love, after all, for many years to come. An uncharacteristic smirk graced her lips at the irony.

No, something had died in her that she couldn't even identify. But from that day on, Christine never had the heart to sing again, since her angel would sing no more, either.

Choking back a sob, she forced the painful memories from her mind and focused on the task of finding Mme. Giry's room as quickly and quietly as possible.

_Two turns to the right, up the stairs...yes, there they are…now to the left._ She still knew this great structure like the back of her hand. It was something solid, unchanging, despite the comings and goings of its performers, patrons, divas. And opera ghosts.

Smiling in silent secrecy, she thought of the stories she could tell. _Oh, how we will all marvel some day at the great feats of the Fantome de l'Opera!_ _Trap doors, mirror tricks, croaking prima donnas, and the notes – so many notes!_

A hand grasped her shoulder from behind, sternly spinning her out of her reverie. A scream of terror began to rise in her throat, but a hand clamped quickly over her mouth, stifling the shriek before it loosed itself. Hastily, she was shuffled through the nearest doorway, and released.

Christine spun around to face her attacker, the earlier paranoia and fear of her flight to the opera house rekindled. Starting in surprise, she found before her, instead of a ruthless, blood-thirsty criminal, the very person she had been seeking out.

Gasping a cry of relief, Christine threw herself into the arms of her former ballet instructor, hugging her with all the joy she felt at her narrow escape.

"Madame Giry, oh, how I have longed for an old friend these past weeks!" sobbed the young Comtesse into the older woman's shoulder. Mme. Giry grasped her arms, strongly returning the embrace, then quickly pulled the girl out to face her.

"Christine, why in heaven's name are you here, child, roaming the corridors like some lost soul-" the ballet instructor bit back the rest of her words as the other woman's face began to grey. She took a deep breath, changed her wording, and more calmly asked, "Dear, what has happened?"

"Raoul told me I should come to you." Pausing at the confused look that crossed over the other's face, she hastened. "Yes, yes, I know that he is dead. But he left me a letter telling me that in case of any tr-trouble," she stumbled, breathed deeply, and looked pleadingly into Mme. Giry's eyes. "He said I should come to you, and you would help me. He said you would know what to do."

Sighing at the girl's wide-eyed fright, the ballet mistress gently lead a shaking Christine to a plush, overstuffed red chair, firmly pushed her shoulders down, forcing her to sit, and turned to the door. Silently closing it, she slid the bolt, turned again, and wearily leaned against it. She slowly took in Christine's appearance, noticing her sopping wet shoes and skirt for the first time.

"You may remove your shoes stockings my dear, and bring them over to the fire to dry."

Christine bent to do as she was told, her fingers tripping over the wet laces. Wiggling the squeaking leather off of her ankles, she tried to roll down her soggy stockings, "hmpfed" in frustration, and finally yanked them from her feet, heedless of whether they stretched beyond redemption. She placed her discarded items next to the fire the Mme. Giry had stoked, pulled her chair closer to the flames, and tucked her bare ankles under her skirts, careful to not make a mess of the damp hem. Settled, she looked to Mme. Giry for any explanation of Raoul's hastily-scribbled, inexplicable message.

Nodding slightly, the woman opened her mouth to speak, then slowly closed it, searching for words to begin her narrative. Decidedly, she changed her tactic. "First, why don't you explain to me why you are in need of help, and I will see what I can do for you." Christine flinched at the abruptness of her words. She had not meant for them to sound cool, but as much as she loved the girl, she had to proceed with caution, for Christine's sake, as well as her own.

"Madame Giry, I don't really know where to begin." Struggling to maintain her composure, she now thought a moment, then continued. "I knew there was something out of place before Raoul even became sick…he was so carefree after our marriage, we both were. Smiling eyes, laughter, secret kisses behind trees. Our trip to England…we were happy, in love. How he would hold me close, and whisper breathlessly into my ear words of ..."

She broke off, remembering some long-ago moment of bliss that Mme. Giry could only guess at. "Not long after he received the control of the de Chagny estates in place of his brother-"

"Philippe."

"Yes," she continued, a bit flustered at the mention of the dead Comte. "At first I thought it was the stress of handling such a vast amount of fortune, business, heritage. All of his travels, business meetings with secret partners; I didn't know what to think. He never grew cold towards me – he loved me too much to shut me out—but he refused to tell me anything of his trips. I would ask him 'What did you see, darling,' and 'Did you discover anything interesting?' He would weakly smile, pat me on the head, and reply 'Nothing of importance. What has my Little Lotte done while I have been gone?' "

Christine heaved a sigh. "He was always sweet and loving in his responses, but in a way that firmly shut the door to my questions. As his trips grew longer more frequent, he grew paler and sicker. He was away when I found the obituary in the paper…" She looked away, her eyes clouding with unspoken grief.

"He was truly sorry that he had not been here to help me when I first read it. I asked to pay my last respects to my maestro…I was refused." Her blue eyes grew bright with pain as the visions of that day, so crystal clear, flew back to her...

"_Christine, for the love of God!" cried Raoul. I have just returned home, to find you an inconsolable weeping mess upon our bed. Papi said that you have been in there for two days – will you please look at me? – tell me what has happened!" _

_She tried to speak, but her words choked in anguish. Concern and love coursing throughout his very being, Raoul flew to her side, stroking the matted hair from her eyes, trying to dry the tears with a soft kiss to each lid…one…two. He slowly, gently lifted her off the bed, and settling her in his arms, stroked her back and comforted her as he would a child. _

_Finally, the tears ceased to flow, and her body sagged against his in exhaustion, releasing any lingering tension with a shudder that coarsed through them both. Raoul, sensing her inevitable descent into sleep, lifted her chin to fix his eyes on hers._

"_Please tell me…" he asked tenderly. Christine broke from the gaze, buried her face into the crook of his arm, silently racking her mind for something—anything other than the truth. _

_The truth? What was the truth, but a realization come too late? Yes, she had loved her teacher, her Angel, but like the child that she still was, had run from that unbridled passion, the all-consuming fire in terror, clinging to what was certain, and…safe. She had craved some sense of normalcy in the hectic, at times vindictive world of the opera, and would have followed Raoul to the ends of the earth to find the peace she sought. _

_Yes, she had loved her maestro as well as she loved Raoul, perhaps even more if love had been unleashed and given a chance to flourish… but what did it matter now that he was gone?_

_So she clung to Raoul, answering him in as steady a voice as possible, "He is dead, Raoul, my Angel has flown away, so it is over now. I must return to bury him."_

_Christine felt the hard thud of Raoul's head against the backboard of their bed, then the sudden shifting beneath her. "No, no, absolutely no. Christine, mon Dieu, the man is gone. You cannot go back into that madness, not after we have come so far-" his voice cracked. _

_He began again more patiently. "Listen to me, sweet, it is for the best. It will only cause you more pain. I swore to protect you, to shelter you. I swore it to him, as well…" Raoul halted. No, it was cruel to use that. "I will keep the promise you made in your stead, and have someone attend to…him. You need not feel obligated to perform a task this large. You can grieve here just as well as you could down there."_

_Snapping to attention, anger flared through Christine, returning to her the strength that had all but extinguished moments ago. "Or do you mean to say that I am too weak to handle this task? That I am feeble, bending and breaking when the tide becomes too strong? Raoul, I must go! You are wrong to keep me away, I cannot grieve from afar – I, I gave him my word." _

_Christine fell back in stunned disbelief. Where had she conjured the courage to speak to her husband in such a manner? Moments ago, she had risen to defend her very soul against—Yes! Her soul, her angel was still with her, somewhere inside. She would fight for him in death as she had not fought for him in life!_

"_No! That is final Christine, you will not go against me," cried Raoul, also in shock at the pillar that had risen before him. "Please," he said quietly. "please remember that I also love you very dearly, and to see you go back to him would destroy me." _

_And as suddenly as it had risen, her pillar of strength crumbled in ruins. She could fight his anger in defiance, oh yes, but she could not refuse his gentle pleading, in some ways, so like the final words of her Angel…_

_...Christine, I love you…_

_She again fought back the tears. _

_That must be the past, she thought with resolution. The choice I make now cannot change the past. I must leave it there. But I can do something about the future. __Her decision made, she turned to face her husband. _

"_Very well, Raoul. If you will please have this placed with him, I will concede to your wishes." Stiffly, she unfolded her white, small fingers to reveal what they had been clutching, so closely guarded. A plain gold band fell from her hand into the palm of her husband's, still warm from her fingers' embrace. _

_Raoul carefully folded it into his crisp, white handkerchief, almost reverently tucked it into his pocket, and for Christine's sake, said no more. He slowly rose, and moved to the door as if in a trance, to make the preparations for the charge he had undertaken._

_Christine glared down into her palm, where the ring had been secreted. A red, swollen imprint remained, a brand forever burned into her flesh. To remind her always of what she had had to relinquish in order to gain her joy. _

"_Joy…" she whispered, staring down into the fading circle on her hand. A guttural moan escaped from her throat as she clutched the rapidly-disappearing, physical reminder of her loss to her heart…_

Startled out of her reverie by Mme. Giry's delicate cough, she continued. "I was refused my request, and Raoul and I tried to carry on as if nothing had even happened. He never asked about Erik, and I never inquired after his mysterious trips. It was our mutual, unspoken agreement." She smiled wistfully. "Then we began our preparations for our little son, Jean-Paul, and the tension melted away."

"Surely it wasn't entirely gone?" enquired Mme. Giry, knowingly.

"No," she conceded. "It was after we had started our family that the secrecy, the fear in his eyes became more prominent, more visible. He wasn't able to hide it as he had before, so anxious was he for me and our little boy. Every sound—a door closing, or a raised voice—caused him to leap to his feet. The paleness and sickness returned. His health deteriorated. Then they found he had the stomach tumors…"

"Merciful father," muttered the older woman. "I had heard that he was sick, but I never knew what it was…so young, and handsome…"

Christine smiled grimly. "Yes, who would have thought? After all we had fought through to, all that was to come, it took something so simple to rip it all away. And in June, too, with all the lovely flowers…" She stood, arching her back, working out the cold from her shoulders.

"But," she continued, slowly lowering herself into the velvety red chair again, "you asked me why I need your help."

"Yes," the ballet mistress murmured. "I have an inclination that it may have something to do with Raoul's bizarre behavior, his mysterious trips. His fear has not died with him," she stated, more than questioned.

"This fear has manifested itself into something very real, and frightening," Christine continued, her agitation and anxiety slowly building into its former glory. "Shadows, whispers, at first…then little warnings, such as dead field mice, and notes…always notes."

Mme. Giry started, panic mingled into every line on her face. The girl chuckled dissonantly. "No, nothing like _those_ notes. They are in black ink, not red..." As quickly as the laugh came, a grim set of face replaced it.

"Then they _murdered_ our little stable hand, Perri. The curiosity that couldn't be stifled in him – so trusting. He was my lady, Papi's son. He was only six." She shut her mind away from the horror, and cleared her throat, determined to go on.

"Here, I have one for you to peruse."

Christine pulled a folded, white sheet of paper from the small pocket of her dress, and handed it to the woman. Mme. Giry slowly unfolded it, careful of the still-damp corner slowly disintegrating into pulp, blurring a few of the words into ink stains. Or perhaps they were tear marks? Shaking her head, she started to read the words aloud.

"_Madame de Chagny, you will follow-"_

she stiffened in her seat, eyes raising to meet those of her young friend.

"—_will follow your husband tonight. Now or never. Au Revoir."_

"_Aide de ciel vous," _she prayed, handing the message back to Christine, glad to be rid of the searing words.

"I am praying to heaven that you can help me. My son…" she swallowed the fear, then looked determinedly at Mme. Giry, all remaining bitterness and anger gone, replaced by a sincere plea for…something.

"I know that Raoul sent for you several times before he died," she whispered hurriedly. "I know you discussed something, but I was not privy to that. He told you of his fears, didn't he?"

"Yes," the ballet mistress admitted, thinking back to that day, the feverish, wasted youth pleading for her help…

"_I don't want to drag you and Meg into this, but she will need help. They will never leave her alone here in Paris!" the dying man cried, clutching at her arms. "Swear to me that you will help her; she will have no one else to turn to when I am gone."_

"_Monsieur, please, tell me what is hunting you so desperately! Then I will agree to help. I must know what I am to fight against," the lady insisted._

_Raoul turned his head away, then returned to her face, fixing his eyes on her in grave seriousness. "Please, Madame, believe me when I say to you that it is better you don't know. You will be safer this way." More softly now, his breath rattling in his chest. " If she comes to you, tell her what you have told me. That shall fulfill your promise-"_

"_And if they do come after her, and she doesn't know why-"_

"_I will warn her, tell her of all my dealings before I leave this earth. I promise…"_

_She slipped quietly out of the room, down the hall, to the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her. To avoid being spotted, she quickened her pace down the stairs, to her waiting cab. She couldn't know that she had visited. Not yet._

"He never explained to you what trailed him, then," sighed Mme. Giry, rapidly seeing the futility of the situation. _No way of turning the tide._

"No, only the letter about you. Mme. Giry, please, share with me what you shared with my husband," cried Christine, now inpatient with the wasted time, time she could be using to make her darling child safe.

Silently, resignedly, the woman walked to her small stationary in the corner, took a key, and unlocked the cover. Sliding it up, she reached under one of the bottom drawers, tripping a small spring that revealed a hidden compartment in the side of the drawer. Wordlessly, she pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief, and pressed it into Christine's open palm.

Raoul's handkerchief! A crackling intensity settled into the stale air as Christine quickly folded back the corners to reveal its secret.

A plain gold band.

Startled, she jumped from her seat, mouth open in mute disbelief. She stared at the ballet mistress in bafflement, willing an explanation.

"Oh yes, my dear girl," she smiled warmly. "He is alive. He is very alive. Your Angel shall perhaps come to your aide again, no?"


	3. Into the Dark

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom characters, mainly Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

**Side Notes:**  
Yes, I am going somewhere with this; I have my research done, and an ending written! Of course, it will take a few twists and turns before we get there…

Thanks beta barefootadvocat, for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they were!

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Into the Dark**

"I don't, I can't...how, when?" Christine stumbled on, her knees slowly sinking, hand patting around behind her for the sturdy arm of the chair. Mme. Giry made a quick move as if to steady her, but the girl managed to stop herself, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands around her middle, warding off the waves of emotion threatening to consume her. Slowly, determinedly, she made a move for the door, crying over her shoulder, "Take me to him! Is he still down below?"

Mme. Giry sprung into step behind the young woman, stepping up her stride to try and keep up with Christine's frantic pace, then with a stomp of frustration, turned back into the room to grab up the girl's discarded cloak, shoes and stockings.

She darted around corners, back down the hallway, up another set of stairs, now heedless of any commotion she was causing. A handful of ballet rats peered around doors to see who was tearing down the hallway. "Christine!" several cried, shocked at seeing the Comtesse running down the corridor, barefoot, wet tendrils flying behind her, then sprung back as they saw their ballet mistress rounding the corner behind the fleeing diva.

"Mother! _Christine_?" Little Meg Giry called after the pair, and when no one replied, grabbed up her shawl, and jumped into the chase. She swiftly followed them into Christine's old dressing room, and nearly stumbled into the back of her mother as she came to an abrupt halt. Christine was frantically patting at the glass of her wall mirror, running her fingers along the back of the gilded frame, stirring up small puffs of dust.

After her infamous flight from the opera house and subsequent marriage to the Vicomte de Chagny, Christine's dressing room had once again reverted to a storage room. Rumors now flew about the "ghost of the Opera Ghost", the sad spirit of the deformed genius that had lived deep down below, terrorizing the _Opera Populaire_. Subsequently, no performer in their right mind would inhabit the cursed room. Meg knew better, however. After observing her mother's comings and goings, and cautiously peering up to the catwalks and balconies during ballet rehearsals, she had begun to believe that maybe the Phantom of the Opera still inhabited the land of the living, albeit quietly. _I shall know soon enough,_ she cringed, turning her attention back to Christine's anxious searching.

"Ah, there it is!" exhaled Christine in triumph, the latch clicking back, swinging the mirror open to reveal the murky labyrinth behind.

The faint chattering and pitter-pat of ballet rats making their way down the hall towards the room drew their attention. Mme.Giry strode over to the hallway door and shut it firmly, effectively barring the descent of curious faces. "Well, my dear," said the ballet mistress, turning to face Christine again, gesturing to the dark tunnel.

Christine nodded slightly, and with trepidation, reached up into the doorway, and took the lantern from its hook. She reached out to Mme. Giry for her discarded clothing, replaced them on her person, lit the lantern, and journeyed into the shadows once more. Madame and little Giry followed behind, cautiously peering beyond the scope of the light, into the black path ahead.

"Meg, I would prefer that you stay here," said Mme. Giry sharply, pulling her daughter from the passage. "There are too many dangers in the cellars. Go!"

"Mother-" Meg began to protest, but with a stern look and a stomp of her foot, Mme. Giry sent the little dancer back to the dimly-lit room, squashing her résistance.

Little by little the two women made their way down, down into the dark, running their fingers along the grimy walls to guide them, careful for any tricks or triggers that may send a startled body hurtling through a trap door into the depths of the caves. Down through the cellars, one by one they wound, through the blackness, little puffs of dank breath misting in the pale light cast around the lantern. A small squeak here, a gust of wind there, coursing through their heavy capes, sending shivers up their spines.

_"Keep your hand at the level of you eyes…" _whispered Mme. Giry, striking a chord of fear through Christine, reminding her of the dangers of this forbidden place. "I am sure he is aware that someone has entered his domain by now."

"Surely he would never…" retorted Christine, shaking her head against the unbidden fears, refusing to entertain the idea that her beloved teacher would….

…but it had been several years since she had deserted him to his cold, lonely fate. Could he still care about her? Would he welcome her with his arms out stretched to her, pulling her shoulders into his embrace…_fingertips trace along her neck, up into her hair…his other hand would press gently into the small of her back, drawing her closer to his smooth brocaded vest grazing her cheek…his breath tickling her ear warmly …_

Mme. Giry sighed and grasped her hand, pulled her around and steered her in the opposite direction she had been treading. "No, my dear, this way," the woman said irritatedly, breaking through Christine's reverie. She chided herself gently for the turn her thoughts had taken. She had not allowed such fantasies to enter her mind for some time, as they would only make her ache for her loss, remind her that she was again alone in the world…

But now – glorious night!—she had been given a second chance. An opportunity to try and correct the wrongs, the pain she had caused him. Oh, the possibilities! The shock of what had been revealed to her, not even an hour ago, was draining away, and the full implications of Mme. Giry's revelation punched into her with a force so strong it knocked the air from her lungs.

_Erik, her Angel of Music…not dead…but alive**!…**and waiting at the end of the labyrinth…_

And then they were at the edge of the lake, unable to go any further. Beyond the water, was his home, Erik's home. "Beyond the lake..." she murmured, comprehension flooding into her. "Mme. Giry, how shall we cross the lake without the gondola?" She deliberated for several moments, turned, and saw the other woman tugging on a rope attached to the overhang of the shore. The boat was there afterall!

_The boat was here. _

_If it is here, then how…_

"Mme. Giry, I don't think that he is there. He must be on this side somewhere, the boat…"

The ballet mistress did not seem to notice her protest as she stepped deftly into the boat, taking up the pole. Glancing at the girl's hesitancy, she impatiently waved her to follow. "Come along child, we shall go anyway, and see what we find." Doing as told, Christine followed into the gondola and firmly pushed off from the shore, sending the boat gliding into the glassy, still waters, sloshing slightly from the disturbance. Mme. Giry navigated the boat through the waters, twisting here and there. When she tired, Christine shuffled to the front, took the pole, and pushed it down and away, moving the boat forward. In her eagerness to reach the shore, she occasionally steered too hard, sending the boat careening to the left, then to the right as she tried to correct. At last the boat slid gracefully to a stop, and the women alighted, one patiently securing the gondola, the other bounding to the entrance.

"Hello?" called Christine, anticipation rippling through her veins, shredding her already raw nerves. No sound came. She called again; still nothing.

Timidly, she reached out a hand and worked the mechanism to open the house. The girl made her way into the dark room, holding her lantern up to light the way. From what she could see, everything was still in its place, little changed. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went about illuminating the rooms, the drawing room, green bathroom—one by one—coming at last to her own Louis-Philippe room.

Footsteps fell behind her as Mme. Giry finally entered into the home, much preferring the brightness of the rooms to the darkness of the lake. Only once had she ventured this far before, the day after the "strange affair", and subsequent mob rule of the Opera house. The lovely things had been ripped to shreds, a life's work annihilated by the blood-thirsty, destructive buffoons. _All of the music…gone…_ she sighed.

But now, it was as if she was in an entirely new place; so great a care had been put into restoring, replacing and mending. Restocked library shelves, a sparkling piano, fresh stacks of compositions piled neatly on the lid of the instrument. Here and there, a tell-tale piece of mismatched wood fit into the side of an armoire, or a newly-upholstered chair out-shown its slightly faded twin. All in all though…amazing, this man. How many nights had he worked without sleep, food, to accomplish what would take others five, perhaps six years?

Her companion was also taking in some of the changes, however slight to her. After all, she had not seen the results of the chaos that had fallen upon the sanctuary of her Angel; instead, she had been spirited away into the night by the Vicomte, never to return to the opera again. The little diva would have wept bitterly at the utter ruin of the place.

A secret smile played on Christine's lips, reminiscing over some stirred memory. _The Persian monkey, he is still here, waiting to greet me…playing that soft, enchanting melody, stirring me from slumber. _She gingerly reached out, squeezing a small cymbal-clad paw.

_Hello, little friend, I have missed you…_she sighed in contentment, in that rare moment of peace that warmed her heart so.

Slowly, though, her smile faded from her face as she sensed some sort of question, some puzzle hanging in the air. She couldn't quite place it, and it drove her to look about more closely. A thin, undisturbed layer of dust had settled over everything. All the necessaries of life were still here…food aged by a week or two, a little water still sitting in a basin, what little had not evaporated away. Clothes neatly hung in the wardrobe, nothing missing. Even his fine dark cloak still hung next to the door. A book sitting open over the arm of the chair, as if the reader would saunter in and pick it up at any moment.

Yes, that was it!…everything frozen in time, this Pompeii home…a life so suddenly interrupted, that even his precious _Don Juan Triumphant _lay lightly against the music stand next to the piano, corners drooping sadly, open for any stray eyes to see -so uncharacteristic of his careful, cautious ways….

_Something was wrong. _

A wave of nausea flooded over her, and she bent slightly, tensing, choking back the stinging bile in her throat. Where was he? Why did he leave like this, so abruptly that he didn't even don his cloak and hat?

"Madame Giry, how long do you think he has been gone?" the girl croaked.

"Days, perhaps a week or two. The dust isn't very thick, yet-"

"I'm going to look for him!" she cried, gathering up the lantern, dashing for the door. "He couldn't have left the opera; he didn't take cloak and hat." She stopped to look over Mme. Giry's fear-stricken face. "You may come with me if you like, since I will have the lantern, or you could stay here and wait."

"Christine, you will be lost forever if you start flying through those unfamiliar passages, we both know that." Mme. Giry sighed, and calmed her tone. "I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do but wait to see if he returns. And unfortunately, you do not have the luxury of time on your side. Have you forgotten those that pursue you?"

The ballet mistress paced a bit, snapped her fingers. "The _Sûreté_! Christine, surely they will be able to help, perhaps post guards at the entrance to your estate. You can go to them-"

"Ha!" barked the woman dismally. "Incompetent, every last one of them. Their guards have been in my home, eating my food for the past two weeks, and still this – whoever—has slipped past them, leaving frightening little presents for me to find."

Mme. Giry started at the strange tones emitting from this normally docile creature, wondering at the change from weak girl to woman that the past few years had rendered. _Of course, _she mused, _she is now a mother. And mothers will become savages, if need be, to protect their young._

"Furthermore," Christine continued "they are still convinced that I had something to do with Erik's elusion of their trap. They fail to acknowledge that he may have just been much smarter than they." Both women chuckled low at the memory of two dozen policemen, wildly darting around the balconies, aisles, when all the time, the man they sought was the very tenor captivating the minds of the audience, making love to the young _Aminta _with his lustrous voice.

Then, in all seriousness the older woman turned glazed, sad eyes to the young Comtesse, resignation written in all movements. "Christine, you have no other choice. You must leave Paris."

"Yes." Christine's eyes widened at what could be happening above ground, as they spoke. "Yes, I must return to Jean-Paul, I will not waste time waiting, doing nothing." She tilted her head in thought for a moment. "It will take three days to make the arrangements to leave. I shall speak with the de Chagny lawyer-he was a good friend to Raoul—and he can help with the preparations. But Madame, I _refuse_ to abandon Erik, not again. I _will _find him before I leave Paris; I must! He is down here somewhere in the dark, I can _feel_ it. I will return home tonight, pack a few things, leave my instructions for the servants. Tomorrow, I'll return to continue the search until I find him, or until my three days are over, and I have no choice but to go with my son."

Reading Mme. Giry's concern, she smiled at her former instructor for good measure, once again drawing into herself. "I can find some way to keep from getting lost in the labyrinth."

The two women extinguished the lamps and closed the home, the unspoken words hanging in the air—that they may never return to the house by the underground lake again.

Christine and Mme. Giry emerged through the mirror once more into the darkness of the old dressing room, startling a drowsy Meg to attention. Leaping from the settee, shawl fluttering to the floor, little Giry reached out, crying, "Oh, please tell me, what happened? Was he shocked to find you there? He didn't send you away, did he?" Mme. Giry held up a hand, effectively silencing the onslaught of curiosity from her beloved daughter.

"Dear Marguerite, we did not find him. That is that. Now please, say goodbye to your friend. She will be leaving us soon."

Disappointment flooded through the little dancer. 'You will not at least stay the night? It is rather late to be out on the streets." Even as she said this, she moved to help Christine adjust her hair under the hood of her cloak, knowing that her pleading was in vain. Sighing she clutched at her friend's hands, tears welling in the corner of her eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Oh, Christine!" she cried, pulling the Comtesse into an embrace. "Whatever is happening, please be careful. Paris cannot lose your lovely voice." She smiled, but her face was a sea of mixed emotions. She really did not want to let go of her friend.

Christine pulled away, and moved for the door. "I promise that I will come back to Paris as soon as I can." With a small raise of her hand to her Meg's cheek, she swept of the room, tears threatening, Mme. Giry close on her heels.

They made their way down the hall, but before she made to exit the opera, Christine turned to the ballet mistress. "Perhaps I should not leave the way I came in," she murmured, thoughts of what could be lurking outside the heavy door driving her back.

"Come, child," said the Madame, taking her by the hand, down more dimly-lit hallways, and into a wood-paneled room. Feeling along the wall, she pushed slightly on a raised wooden medallion that ornamented the runner. Four feet away, one of the panels slid open, revealing a hollow wall that served as a narrow hallway, running the length of the opera house, and presumably to a door that led outside, hidden somewhere in the exterior of the building. Christine's eyes widened at the genius of it.

"All of these years scampering about with the ballet corps, and I never knew this was here!"

"The opera has many secrets," the woman whispered conspiratorially. "You need only look to the architect to comprehend the vastness of this building. It was designed specifically to hold secrets." Mme. Giry touched the tip of the woman's nose as if to affirm what she had just stated. "When shall you return tomorrow, my dear?"

"Early morning, before dawn; perhaps six o'clock? I must get a few hours' rest tonight, if possible."

"Very well, I shall come here to wait for you." Mme. Giry caught Christine's arm as she turned to leave. "One thing more. Take a round-about way home tonight, child. Do you have something to protect yourself with?"

Christine reached behind her cloak and pulled a small dagger from a sheath attached to her dainty little belt.

"Good. Be alert, my dear," the ballet mistress whispered as she pulled the door open as quietly as possible, letting the Comtesse slip out. She stood shrouded in darkness for a few moments, warily watching for any out-of-place shadows that might be trailing the young woman. Then, breathing a sigh of relief, made her way back to her chambers.


	4. A Clever Plan

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. Characters: I love all of them, own none of them.

**Side Notes:**

Yes, I am going somewhere with this; I have my research done, and an ending written! Of course, it will take a few twists and turns before we get there…

Thanks to both of my betas, kimberwyn and barefoot advocat! This chapter contains a slight nod to my beta, barefoot advocat-See if you can spot it, just for fun!

**

* * *

A Clever Plan**

Christine lowered her head to the glass top of her secretary, cooling her flaming cheek from the exertion of the long, brisk walk home. _Breathe…_she told herself, still heaving in gulps of air, trying to slow the rapid pace of her heart. _You can do this, but you don't have much time. _

Where to begin? She hadn't the slightest notion of what to do from here, her brain a mess of clutter and paranoia, barring any rational thought from making its way to the surface.

_Just keep breathing…breathe, there now, _she chanted, gradually slowing her heart and unclouding her mind.

"First step," she stated aloud, logic and reason once again her friend. "I must write to M. David She slid open the drawer of her secretary, pulling out a sheet of crisp, heavy paper, adorned with the de Chagny crest. Dipping the nub of her pen into the inkwell, she cleanly wrote in a swooping, swift hand:

_M. Henri David, Avocat_

_2 Rue Pied nu, Place du Lépine, Paris_

_Dear Monsieur,_

_Your presence is requested at the southern end of Ile de la Cité flower market, in place Lépine, at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. My man, Norris Nitot, shall meet you there in my place, and shall seek your advice on my behalf. Please bring your satchel, and remain inconspicuous. Any arrangements made can be conveyed to Mme. Giry of the _Opera Populaire; _she will know how to contact me._

_Yours respectfully, _

_Madame the Comtesse de Chagny_

She skimmed over the message quickly, folded the note and pressed the de Chagny crest into the hot, green wax to seal her words.

Christine then rose, and pulled open the door of her elaborately carved armoire. Crouching down, she pulled a hatbox from the bottom of the closet, hidden under a blanket and plopped it in front of her in disdain.

All the notes… why had she saved them? They should have been burned as the filth that they were. Perhaps it was the paranoid feeling that if she destroyed the missives, somehow _they_ would know, and _they_ would punish her. She took the top one in her hand, and unfolded it again.

_"Dead little mice tell no tales. N or N."_

This had come the night theyfound Perri…

_She was mistress of this estate, protector of all who worked and lived under her roof, and she had failed them. Papi's screams of despair at the sight of lifeless son still haunted her dreams. The image of her friend clutching her fist to her mouth, her back to the wall, eyes wild with disbelief and terror. Norry, the old caretaker, sinking to his knees and pulling his only grandchild to his breast, rocking back and forth as if to comfort the pale boy._

_There at Perri's feet was the note…_

_Grabbing up the piece of paper, she flew down the gravel path, slipping once or twice, to the guard posted at the gate of the estate, pleading for his help. "Perri," she gasped, pulling at the sleeve of his coat, "our little stable hand. Someone has killed him!" _

_The officer scurried along behind her to join the growing crowd of servants surrounding the sad picture. He circled once, twice, taking in all of the details his sagging face could spot, then turned to the Comtesse wearily. _

"_My lady, I do not know what to say. Perhaps he just fell-"_

"—_Read the note," she interjected harshly, bristling at his obvious lack of compassion. He took it from her outstretched hand, skimmed over the words, and handed it back to her._

"_I shall speak to my superior about this," he sputtered, trying to appease her anger…_

Shuddering violently, she crumpled the threat and threw it into the fire, glaring as it flamed up, crackling and breaking to pieces, swiftly consumed into a black mass of ash. _Why the boy?_ She let loose a shriek of rage, longing to hurl the missive's brothers to the same fate. Instead, she slammed them to the floor, and bound them together with a ribbon.

_The saggy-faced man was as good as his word. A few more guards had been posted at various points along the grounds, but it was not enough to prevent the delivery of the latest note, this time threatening her very life. No, the Surete were useless; she had to act on her own—there was no other way. _

"_Oh, Raoul," she had sobbed, desperately longing for the security of her husband's arms, clinging like a child to his loving assurances of shelter from the evils of the world. "What would you have me do?" She pounded her fist to the floor in futile frustration._

_It was then that Christine had remembered his letter on the top shelf of her armoire, tucked away among the other precious reminders. It had remained unopened as instructed, her curiosity much overshadowed by her grief._

"_Sweet, you must only open this if you have no where else to turn…," read the front, the inside instructing her to see Mme. Giry. So she had gone to the ballet mistress in one last effort to save her tiny family. But in turn, Mme. Giry had told her that Erik—_

Light and understanding coursed through her very being, startling Christine from her memories.

_Raoul had known!_

He had wanted her to go to her Angel, not just Mme. Giry! Why had she not made the connection earlier? Of course, at the time, the sight of her long-lost ring drove away all other thoughts, so desperate was she to fly to the side of her resurrected angel, to go down below, once again, to his welcome arms.

_They never found his body, so at some point Raoul must have gone to Mme. Giry for an explanation, leaving the gold band for her to keep…_Christine's hand went to the dainty chain at her neck, clutching the ring that now hung from it, twisting it slowly between her fingers in thought, trying to fully comprehend Raoul's note.

Why would he send her back to his rival, the man he loathed so? He himself had told her that to see her return to her Angel's side, even for his funeral, would destroy him. He had hated him, feared his madness, and feared what he would do to win her back…

"Good God!" Christine cried aloud, realization once again forced to the forefront. Her hand flew to her lips at the thought. What would Erik do for her…help her and Jean-Paul to disappear, perhaps? _Even kill for her?_ He would, of that she was certain.

How little credit she had afforded her dear husband! Through his letter, he was, in effect, relinquishing her (albeit reluctantly) to her Angel's safe keeping, knowing that he could save her when the inevitable happened. Erik could protect her when Raoul finally succumbed to the ravages of his illness, and left Christine to deal with the shadow that had stalked him.

_Who better to drive away the demons than the devil himself?_She mused at the irony of it, quietly chuckling at her husband's clever plan.

And then her head hung low, all laughter replaced by bitter regret. Tears of shame ran down her cheeks. Oh, yes, Raoul had known everything. He had somehow understood the peculiar relationship between she and her teacher, had seen the love that she thought was successfully secreted away for no one to know of. She remembered those far away words at Apollo's Lyre, so long ago…

"_Oh, I hate him!" cried Raoul. "And you, Christine, tell me, do you hate him too?"_

"_No," said Christine simply._

"_No, of course not...Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves…" _

Raoul saw through the façade, because he truly knew her heart, just as well as he knew his own. His had beat with love for her, thrived in her presence. And because he understood this about himself, it was innate, then, that he recognized the same sort of devotion in his rival, somewhere in the madness.

Raoul would never harm her, because he loved her. And Erik would never harm her, because he also loved her. He had proof of it; after all, Raoul had been there when Erik had let her go…

Her chest painfully throbbed for the heart of the man she had called "husband;" a man that had cherished her so greatly, he had quietly tried to understand why she never fully gave herself to him, why she had kept back a piece of her heart to save for her poor, unhappy Erik, her beloved fallen Angel.

"_Thank you, Raoul, for understanding…"_ she whispered hoarsely, finality hanging in the air. It was accepted that in some ways, she would never be absolved from her remorse, and was at peace with it.

Sighing in resignation, shaking away the cobwebs of recollection, she turned back to the task at hand. _Perhaps M. David will be able to make something of these notes, _she pondered.

Gathering her bundle and the letter for the a_vocat_, Christine placed them in her little blue satchel. She then went back to her armoire, pulled out a little jewelry chest, and pulled out a few small sacred items to take with her:

Alittle porcelain box, containing a lock of Jean-Paul's fine baby hair;

Arose-embroidered handkerchief that had belonged to her mother, browning slightly in one corner;

An exquisite brooch Raoul had given her on their third and final wedding anniversary; that was in fact, a locket. On the left, a miniature portrait of her father; to the right, her husband.

Anything else that was too large to carry with her – her father's violin, several unadorned, practical dresses, a few toiletries, a childhood book of poetry, now Jean-Paul's favorite—was left on her bed for Papi to pack.

The clock on her mantel chimed _nine…ten…eleven…midnight. _She only had a few hours to sleep until she must rise again and complete her tasks. Christine scurried down the stairs to rouse Papi and Norry, so she could give them some last few instructions. Only those two faithful servants would be traveling with her and Jean-Paul, to wherever M. David chose to conceal them. She knew that Papi and Norry would be in quiet chaos the next few days, meeting with M. David, packing the bare necessities, arranging for the care of the estate, ever careful of dangerously watchful eyes…

Christine slipped stealthily into the lovely little nursery, careful that the light from the hallway would not wake her precious one. Though a small shaft of light crept around her silhouette and illuminated the toddler's rosy face, he slept on, lost in some secret childhood delight. One chubby hand grasped the satiny-blue of his pillow; the other rested under his nose, tiny fingers curled in, thumb safely ensconced in his mouth. Wispy dark curls clung to his forehead as he shifted slightly.

Her heart fluttering with the need to grasp his little fingers, Christine sank into the bed, protectively gathering him close her breast. A soft sigh escaped his lips, and the hand that had clung to the pillow moved to the soft white cotton of her nightgown. She pushed back a few of the stray curls so like her own, kissing him lightly on his forehead.

"_Mon garçon précieux, je t'aime ainsi!"_ she fervently whispered into his ear.

A desire welled inside of her to release something long held back, to give everything she had to her little one. Softly, for the first time since that fateful day she lost her muse, she sang an old French lullaby, one that had been sung to her as a child…

_Au clair de la lune, Pierrot repondit  
Je n'ai pas de plume, je suis dans mon lit  
Va chez la voisine, je crois qu'elle y est  
Car dans sa cuisine, on bat le briquette…_

ooo

She dreamed that night of her angel. The gaunt man lay slumped against the cold stone wall, wheezing heavily, obviously pained by each rise and fall of his aching lungs drawing in ragged breaths of the damp, putrid air.

She reached out to him, but something kept pushing her back, relegating her to the post of mere observer; no matter how hard she tried, flailed her hands in front of her to break through this invisible barrier, she couldn't fly to his side, lift him into her arms.

He could not hear her calling to him, would not even lift his beautiful gold eyes to meet hers. But he knew she was there…oh yes, he was well aware of her frantic presence, but chose effectively to shut her out, have nothing more to do with the miserable wretch that called to him.

And then, ever so slowly, his piercing eyes rose to stare up at her, cruelty, coldness written in every fleck of color. _He hates me…_

And then he began to laugh, a spiteful, bitter sound that echoed through the passage, mocking her feeble attempts to help him. _"Come now, my dear, did you expect to find me any different? After you left me alone to die here in hell, did you think that I would lay my head at your feet like a pathetic dog? Even you cannot be so thick-"_

Christine started awake, drops of perspiration beading her forehead. She blinked once, twice, in confusion at her surroundings.

_Not the labyrinth…I'm not there, I'm in the nursery…_

She shook her head to clear away the cruel words, her worst fears incarnate. She stretched, leaned over to look upon her child's face once more, kiss his plump cheek. She leapt up, driven from the bed with a new purpose. It was time to rescue her Angel from hell, damned if he wanted her to or not.


	5. Hansel and Gretel

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom characters, mainly Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

I'd like to apologize for a few formatting problems that occurred when I uploaded this chapter. Some of the character's thoughts that should be italicized, aren't. Can't quite figure out what the issue is, yet, but please bear with it for a bit. Thanks!

**Side Notes:**  
Yes, this is the chapter when our dear Erik makes actual, real-life appearance in the story. And he won't be ducking out anytime soon.

Please feel free to read and review. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

I am going somewhere with this; I have my research done, and an ending written! Of course, it will take a few twists and turns before we get there…

Thanks betas kimberwyn and barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they were!

**Hansel and Gretel**

_How long had he lain here, waiting for the sickness to claim him? How had he even found the strength to carry himself away from his home, stumbling along the walls, to his final resting place? So pathetically, abhorrently weak._

"_I truly am mad! It could not have been her voice that I had heard echoing through the caverns only hours earlier, hovering, haunting me one final time…Oh, to hear my Angel of Music's voice again, raised in song; its clear, perfect tone flooding my soul, filling this empty vessel that is my heart. She would take my hand and gently sing me to sleep…_

_My God, let me die. Grant me what I have begged for these past few years, too cowardly to do anything about it myself. I have nothing, not even my music, not her…release me from my pain, here in this darkness, where I belong. God, what have you ever given me, except for this horrid face and a life full of bitterness? Once you have blessed me—only once—and she was taken away from me. She left me, left with only the memory of a kiss…Please, grant a dying man his final request…"_

_Had he spoken aloud? He thought not, though in this floating state of consciousness, he could have been mumbling some secret language, for all he knew. _

_What was she doing now, as he lay in his cold, stone grave? Was it nighttime? Yes, perhaps it was._ _Nothing moved above him, no sounds of rehearsals, no painful screeching from the dreadful Carlotta echoing through the cracks of the opera house._

_An unbidden vision came to him, often his uninvited guest… _

_Christine is stretched out upon a rug in the library, peacefully sleeping. One hand is tucked neatly under her cheek; the other, extended out, next to the book that has fallen from her hand. A low fire burns and flickers behind her, illuminating the contours of her face in warm contrasts and shadows. Her lips quirk at some secret pleasure, a soft sigh escaping them. Now she stirs slightly, turning to lie on her back, an arm draped gracefully across her waist. Glorious coffee-colored curls spill around her, over her shoulders, bringing out the creamy whiteness of her skin, rosy from the warmth of the flames. Her chest rises and falls slowly, softly; his insides knot with every inhale…exhale… _

_He looks to her face again. Her eyes are now open…hard brilliant blue, dark and glittering in the firelight…their depth a tumultuous sea, waves crashing upon his shore. _

_Eyes meet. _

"_Erik…" she murmurs. _

_He is lost…lost… _

_Erik exhaled achingly as he choked back a moan; a few tears had gathered under his lids._

_No, his last desire would never be granted—to see her lovely face, to hear her song once more—not to a lowly devil like him. Her voice in the cavern; it had been the cruel, wish-fulfilling delusion of a madman. Three years ago, she hadn't kept her promise – to come when he was 'dead', to bury him with his ring. And now, she would never come for his final moments. _

_Accursed things; too weak to open my eyes to release them, too frail to even lift my hand to wipe the damn things away…_

* * *

"Christine, how in heaven's name do you expect this to work?" Madame Giry lifted several pieces of shredded white paper above her head, letting them flutter to the ground. "They will all blow away with the first gust of wind, and you will be lost in the labyrinth. Couldn't you have found something different to use?" the woman chided, perilously close to abandoning the Comtess for the safety of lit hallways.

Christine let loose an exasperated sigh, her confidence in this task waning with every complaint from the ballet mistress. "No, see, the paper is very heavy; its my personal stationary, so its rather high quality. And look, the paper will cling to the damp floors." They both stared down at the snowy fragment gleaming against the dark stone of the passage, a bit of the gold de Chagny crest flickering in the lantern light. Mme. Giry felt rather unwilling to trust the small bit with her safety.

"It was all I could come up with, with the little time that I had. I just grabbed up a stack when I left, thinking about Hansel and Gretel…" Christine added lamely, her words dying away at the stern look from her former instructor.

"Please, Mme. Giry – I need your help. Whenwe find him, I rather think that he will need some sort of assistance. I cannot support him on my own." Her pleading eyes reached out to the Madame, all the fears of her nightmare present in their depths.

The woman's head fell slightly in defeat, relenting to the young girl's pleas. "Very well, I shall assist you," she said resignedly, feeling very deeply that the chances of their task ending happily were slim.

The two women once again wound through the tunnels, this time turning away from the lake and continuing into the maze of darkness to the left. Ever so cautiously, they silently made their way through the shadows, one holding a beacon of light high, dropping little white petals along the path; the other, desperately trying to stomp them securely into the ground.

Not a word was spoken, each set of ears turned to listen to the sounds around them; a squeak here, a whoosh there, the slight rustle of fabric, the quiet echo of their feet. How long did they wander about the maze, turning towards unmarked paths, steering away from the ones already flecked with white paper…hours, perhaps? In the darkness, all time was erased, only manifesting again when they began to hunger.

The two women stopped to rest their weary feet and munch the red apples they had packed. Settling down into the passage, each leaning against an opposite wall, they quietly whispered, reluctant to pierce the stillness that had surrounded them for so long.

"Perhaps we should begin searching in the other side of the labyrinth, when we continue," Mme. Giry put forth to Christine. The young woman nodded imperceptibly, her thoughts somewhere far away.

"Tell me, Mme. Giry, of Erik," murmured the Comtess. "I know of the mob that night, after the opera, and his flight from them. Not long after that, I was led to believe he was dead. What has happened to him since—since then?"

"Oh my dear, I hardly know," replied the older. "I have never really spoken to him, you know; except through his notes. And any activity of that sort ceased after the night of his opera. Every now and again I see a flash of his mask, or hear a sound in the wall. I know he is still there…sometimes I believe he _wants_ me to know, perhaps to help him believe he is still there, as well. Such a lonely existence…" The woman's eyes misted in pity for the lost man condemned to the prison of his own making.

Christine quickly squashed back the lump in her throat at the ballet mistress' words, fighting back the guilt threatening to swarm up. She lowered her eyes, studying the contour of the path. "The body—when they never found one—did you already know then?" she asked, trying to avoid the course the conversation had taken. Madame nodded in assertion. "But you did not place the obituary, because you have not been in touch." Another nod.

"Mme. Giry, I do not understand! Someone has to have been helping him—he could not have rebuilt his-" her words fell away as soon as they left her mouth, forgotten, as something caught her attention. Mutely, she peered left, then right down the hallway, wide eyes struggling to fight through the blackness. An almost inaudible sound floated to their ears, an odd gasping noise echoing through the halls…

"Christine, what-"

The Comtess immediately hushed her, waving her hand frantically. Then, not waiting for the sound again, she abruptly sprang to her feet, grabbed up the lantern, and ran down the tunnel into the dark, turning a sharp left. "He's here! I can hear him, he's close!" she cried over her shoulder to the woman, forgetting all about her bits of paper.

_Left, right, right again…the breathing was getting louder—he's here somewhere—another left, heedless of bruised shoulders and toes from invisible corners._

"Erik!"

She frantically called again, halting for some sort of response. "Please! Where are you!"

_"Christine…"_

The whispered name crackled in the air only seconds—left once more, and there!—

He was there around the bend, slumped against the wall, arms and legs sprawled out into the path. His head lay limply against the stone, black hair falling across the bare side of his pale, thin face, the contrast stark. The other side was still carefully ensconced in his mask. A raspy, wheezing sound barely emitted from parted cracked lips, chest rising and falling ever so faintly with every painful breath.

Christine flew to his side, taking in the state of his emaciated limbs trembling with chills and fever.

"_Ah, mon Ange, vous vivez_! I have found you at last!" she cried, flinging her arms about him. His flimsy dirty shirt, open at the throat, was soaked through with perspiration and the dankness of the tunnel. Her little hand cupped his forehead, then his cheek; her thumb brushed against the stubbled surface of his chin. The heat radiating from his feverish face almost seared her palm.

"Madame Giry, here! We're over here!" she called into the tunnel. Turning her face back to her Angel, she leveled soft blue eyes to his closed lids. "Erik," she murmured, willing them to open. "Erik…Erik…Erik, open your eyes." Her fingertips brushed back a lock of black hair. Ever so slowly, his lids fluttered open; his stunning, steely eyes mere slits of color in his face.

Christine smiled into them, joy bursting forth from her very being. "Erik, why have you not taken care of yourself?" she softly chided, stroking the back of her hand along the side of his cheek.

His beautiful eyes clouded over, a range of emotions conveyed in his piercing gaze. At first, confusion…surprise…and then something so intense that her eyes almost broke away from the strength of his glare. Anger…love…every pain known to man mingled there in the twin pools of gold, drawing her in… all other thoughts clearing away, save for the powerful pull of those eyes, her mind seduced by them, calling…

"_Mon Dieu_!" cried the ballet mistress, emerging from the darkness of the tunnel, breathlessly falling to the other side of the ill man, effectively breaking the force of the moment. Her hand pressed against his forehead, gauging his fever. Lifting the lantern, she pulled back the lid of his left eye, looking for any reaction to the light.

"He is far gone, but there may still be time. Pneumonia, I think—this damp cold cavern hasn't helped. He needs a doctor, soon!" Rocking back on her heels, she searched about the tunnel, as if expecting one to emerge at any moment. Her mind frantically looked for solutions, again taking in the state of the gaunt man. "Erik, can you speak at all?"

He opened his mouth, a hoarse sound emitting from his parched throat. "_Water…"_ Christine grabbed up her satchel, dug through it, and pulled out a small, metal canister. She pulled off the cap, and gently raising his head, lifted it to his dry lips. A stream of water flooded into his mouth, cooling his swollen tongue and aching throat. A small bit trickled down the corner that Christine wiped away with her thumb.

Erik swallowed painfully, choking a bit at the long-denied liquid. Christine lifted the canister again, offering more; he shook his head slightly in refusal. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to speak. "How did you find me?" he whispered lowly, his voice cleared of some of the rasp.

Relief at the lucidity of her Angel's words flooded into the little Comtess. The fever was not wreaking havoc on his mind, yet. "When Mme. Giry and I did not find you in your home, we came looking for you," she smiled, her explanation short and sweet. She looked to Mme. Giry, conveying her unspoken question. _What do we do? Do we dare to try and move him?_

Mme. Giry nodded, and turned back to the sick man. "Erik," she spoke a little more firmly, serious eyes searching his face. "If Christine and I help to support you, do you think that you could make it back through the hallways?"

He paused a moment, closing his eyes. Ever so carefully, he lifted his hand to test the strength of his limbs, and nodded in consent.

Mme. Giry rose, taking her young companion by the arm to conference down the path, out of Erik's hearing. "The lake home?" the ballet mistress whispered the question to the girl.

Christine shook her head. "No, we cannot bring a doctor there. We might as well sign his death warrant," she whispered back.

"Where to, then? Surely not your old dressing room…" The women paused for a moment, racking their minds for answers.

Mme. Giry started. "There is a door to my chambers from the labyrinth, somewhere, but I have no idea how to get there from where we are."

"That should do well," assented Christine. "It may take some convincing on his side, but in his state, there is not much he can do. I can go for my personal physician, under the guise that you are sick."

"Yes," the ballet mistress agreed, continuing, "however, I am afraid we must then bring Meg into this. She will want to know what is wrong with her Maman." Mme. Giry saw a glint of worry cross across the Comtess' face. "Do not worry, she is a good little actress," the Madame smiled.

"I did not want to involve her in any of this," Christine sighed sorrowfully.

"Tut, she will want to help, and I dare say, can be very useful at times," the mother said fondly of her daughter.

Christine, relenting, turned back to Erik. "We are going to take you to Madame's rooms, but we don't know the way. Can you try to stay awake to guide us there?" Her eyes searched his, beseeching him to be strong.

Erik felt warm energy coarse through him, a last burst of stamina. _For you, Christine, I would give my soul…_

He struggled to sit up, every muscle in his body aching in protest at the movement. Eloquently, he gestured down the path, in the proper direction. Clearing his throat once more, he mustered up a steady voice. "Shall we?"

* * *

The small band made their way back through the darkness, Erik softly murmuring directions. "Left here, now right. Travel up, keep walking up…" he whispered to them, fighting the blackness that hovered around his mind, urging him to sleep. His arms were slung over his companions' necks, causing each woman to hunch over, the weight of his person pushing them down. Mme. Giry fought to keep the lantern high, lighting the way. Christine's arms clutched around Erik's middle every so often, struggling in vain to lift him; then she would fling out an arm to steady her balance, desperately fighting to keep from tumbling to the ground.

Faces were slick with sweat, clothing spattered with mud and grit. To an outside observer, the scene would have been almost comical, had not the man being carried been so gravely ill.

Despite all the pain, Erik rather enjoyed the feel of his beloved Christine under him, struggling prettily with all her might to carry him to safety. When her arms would fly around him for support, he almost smiled wistfully, enjoying the feel of her hands at his waist. The scent of her hair rose gracefully to him, filling his nostrils with each breath. He sighed. _Lavender…perhaps there is a God…_

Christine stumbled again under his weight, hissing harshly as her knee hit the ground. She pushed herself up, effectively jabbing Erik's ribs with her shoulder. The ailing man exhaled sharply against the blow. Mme. Giry halted and shifted the weight to help Christine regain her footing.

"I am sorry, oh Erik, forgive me!" the girl cried.

He could only nod his head "yes" in response, biting his lip in pain. _So much for the blissful feel of her arms_. He concentrated mightily on the ground running beneath his feet, the dizzy movement hypnotizing him, forcing back the waves of pain rolling through his body. Flakes of white leapt out here and there, amidst the black stone. He fought to focus in on the objects, steer his mind away from the torturous ache in his chest.

_What the devil is all over the floor of my cellar?_ He peered more closely. _Paper—that was it. Torn bits of paper scattered along the path, meant to lead them out of the labyrinth._ He chuckled inwardly_. Only his Christine would think of a fairy tale…_

A glint of gold on one of the pieces caught his eye. Curiosity claiming him, he waited for the next one to pass into view. _There was the rest of it…the letter 'C,' surrounded in an ornate circle…C for 'Chagny'. _Jealousy and anger swept back into him, forcing him to remember who it was that not-so-carefully carried him through the passage. He grumbled in disgust at the sheer embarrassment and indignity of his predicament.

"What was that, my Angel?" came the sweet reply at his side, once again in-step with her counterpart.

"I see that you have littered my home with your calling card, Comtess," he hissed breathlessly, anger glistening dangerously in his eyes. "Do you now claim my cellars for the Chagny estate?"

A dainty little laugh reached his ear, a sound quite opposite to the tearful apology he had anticipated.

"I am sorry for the mess, Erik, but it was the only thing I could think to do. Would you rather I'd have trailed along little breadcrumbs to feed the furry inhabitants of your labyrinth?" she evenly retorted.

Erik seethed in anger at her impertinence, but said no more, not having the strength to uphold any semblance of conversation.

They slowly twisted and turned through the cellars, sometimes shuffling sideways through the narrow passages, many times stopping to rest and gasp for air. And then they could go no further. A stone wall barred the way to the other side of the tunnel, leaving them baffled.

"Erik, what do we do now? There is nowhere to go—is this the end of the path?" Christine shook him softly, trying to rouse him. His head rolled left, then right, silence his only response to her question. He was out cold, insensible to their predicament.

"Mme. Giry, he's unconscious. I don't think I can wake him to show us the way!" she cried piteously, her heart racing at the thought that they may never find their way out of the maze.

"It is best for him," the ballet mistress called over her shoulder, patting at stones in the wall, along the sides of the corridor. A rock shifted slightly under her hand. "Besides, we will not need his services any more. I have found the way out." She pushed down on the stone, and the wall slid gracefully into the side of the corridor, revealing the warm glow of Mme. Giry's chamber.


	6. Faces

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, I guess I _do_ own Jean-Paul, and Dr. Sablet, and a few other side characters, but they really aren't much fun without the characters I _don't_ own….

**Side Notes:**  
Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

Hang in there…a good story needs a good set-up.

Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they are!

**Faces **

Christine raised a hand to block the glaring sun from her face, the chilly fresh air a welcome alternative to the dankness of the labyrinth. After ages of winding through the darkness of the opera house cellars, her sensitive eyes protested against the onslaught of light. "_Why, it can't be more than three o'clock!" she marveled, amazed once again at the nonexistence of time in the depths of the Opera Populaire. _

She walked along the busy _Rue Scribe_ and up to the _Place de l'Opera_, stopping to observe the rumbling carriages, the bustle of pedestrians darting from shop to shop. Proprietors called out to the crowds, inviting them in to view their produce. Men stopped to greet one another, shake hands. Ladies with the latest plumed hats and fur muffs sauntered gracefully along the walkways, a few with obstinate little children trailing along, sticky hands reaching out to grab a pretty scarf or croissant. Horses whinnied, bells chimed…life above ground had not ceased to exist during those long hours in the dark of the labyrinth. It had gone on as usual, oblivious to the plight of the little diva and her unhappy Angel of Music.

Eyes now adjusted to the brightness of the afternoon, Christine stepped out in the road to hail a brougham. She had a task to carry out, and it did not require musing at the state of the street in front of her. Erik needed a doctor, and quickly; even in the few minutes it had taken to settle him in Mme. Giry's bed, he had slipped into the feverish world of delusion…

Christine had only sought to make him more comfortable by removing his shirt and pull the clean sheet up over his feverish, trembling body. But what she saw…_heaven forgive her,_ she had not known! His chest and back were streaked in angry red scars, the eternal reminders of horrors long past. What had caused them…a whip or rod, perhaps? Eyes wide with disbelief, she turned to see that Mme. Giry was also observing the marks. The ballet mistress, however, showed no signs of shock at the lines crisscrossing Erik's torso; rather, a stoic gaze masked her emotions, betrayed only by a slight wince of sympathy for the man's suffering.

"Mme. Giry, how did this happen?" the girl whispered incredulously, still unable to trust the evidence of his mortality before her, often forgotten amidst the otherworldly nature of her Angel.

The older woman shook her head slightly and continued to watch the quaking form before her. "I know very little of his past. And I am afraid, Christine, that it is not my place to tell you even _that_. The prerogative to share his story lies with him; and I shall not go against it again."

Christine sighed in sadness, reverently kneeling next to her teacher. She cautiously raised a hand to his chest; hovering in a moment of indecision. Reaching out, she delicately traced her finger along a scar running the length of his rib cage. Erik shuddered slightly under her touch; a tear slid down her cheek and dripped onto his body. And then her wrist was caught up in a vice-like grip, strong fingers digging into her flesh. She let out a little yelp of pained shock, eyes flying to the face of the man before her.

His mouth was contorted with a controlled fury, gold eyes flashing with rage. He forcefully threw her hand away, scoffing in disgust. "Your curiosity has caused you much trouble in the past. Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from taking any liberties in the future, _Comtesse,_" he hissed, spitting out her title as it were a filthy word. "Leave me – I do not want your pity."

Christine cowered like a scolded puppy under his ruthless gaze, fear and rejection evident in the slouch of her shoulders. _He** hates** me, as he did in my dream_…Silently, quickly, she brushed past Mme Giry, choked out a brief "I'll go for the doctor," and darted from the room before the sob of hurt that gathered in her throat could be released…

And now she stood at the corner, trying to flag down a brougham to fetch a doctor for the man who held nothing but resentment for her.

Christine bristled once more at his words. How she had wanted to show him that she was a stronger, wiser, woman! After all, she was no longer the naïve girl that had basked in the glow of his praise. So much had happened since then –she was a mother now, as well as a widow. She could stand as his equal, instead of looking up to him in captivated awe. But instead of rising against his temper as she had yearned to do, she had received his berating as she always had—slavishly and tearfully—as if three years had not passed at all.

Brushing away the angry drops spilling down her cheeks, she raised her hand again for another brougham. Though she waved her hand frantically, two, then three drivers failed to slow down. A passing carriage splattered a streak of mud along the hem of skirt, fresh dirt mingling with the old. Suddenly, the little Comtesse was painfully aware of her appearance. Torn, wrinkled dress, mud caked in her frizzy, wild hair and smeared across her face; it was no wonder that a brougham wouldn't stop for a creature straight from the gutter.

"Comtesse, allow me," said a gruff, masculine voice into her ear. Firmly taking her by the elbow, he steered her into the street, arm held high to hail a passing brougham. Christine spun around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the assister at her elbow, but he reached around her to open the carriage door, effectively blocking his face from view.

Something about the forceful way the man was handling her caused an uneasy sensation to stir in her breast. _He had addressed her as 'Comtesse'…_Panic quickly taking hold, she murmured politely, "Thank you, but I think I shall walk today." The man ignored the frazzled woman, grasped her around the waist and lifted her into the cab, climbing in behind her. Rapping on the roof to signal the driver, the brougham sprinted into motion, tearing down the road, weaving around the slower carriages.

Christine threw herself against the opposite door with all her might. Her attacker, chortling at her escape attempt, grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back to his shoulder, her white neck exposed. She stared up at the frayed, torn roof of the cab, tears of pain and fright gathering in the corners of her eyes.

"Where are you taking me?" she questioned hysterically. Only silence answered her. "Please," she whispered hoarsely, "let me go! I must find a doctor –someone is dying..." Her words fell away as she felt the cold, hard steel pressed against her throat. Her entire being froze in terror; blood ceased to flow through her veins, then began pulsing again in rapid, jolting waves. _Think—I can't think!_

"Oh my dear," hissed the unseen man at her throat. "You shall be the dead one, if you do not give me what I want. A _dead—little—mouse_." His pungent breath was tepid in her ear, his fingers bruising at her ribs. Her mind in frenzy, she tried hopelessly to comprehend his words.

"I don't know what you want!" she sobbed, digging her shoulders back into man's cloak, away from the blade at her neck. He jerked her head back again, sending a clear warning of irritation at her actions. "Money?" she cried. "If that is what you want, I have plenty, in my satchel! Please…"

"You know what I am speaking of, and it is not money—do not play coy with me, Comtesse. Hand it over, now." He violently shoved her away, sending the frightened thing sprawling to the floor of the cab. She quickly fixed her eyes on the man over her shoulder, bracing for an attack. Her captor hunched over the bench, still brandishing the knife in his hand. A cape was draped over his head to shadow his face, save for thin pale lips, twisted in a malevolent smirk.

"There are much more important things in this world than money, Comtesse, things you know nothing of in your gaudy, superfluous existence. Things like justice, autonomy, and the ability to influence change, using whatever means necessary. Your foolish husband had a very difficult time understanding this, didn't he? He thought money alone could wield power and influence, but he was wrong, wasn't he?" The man snarled maliciously, as if remembering some cruel jest. "Instead, he spent the last days of his life in a pathetic, paranoid stupor, finding that he couldn't easily rid himself of his demons with his wretched, dirty money. And now he has left you a legacy of the same, hasn't he? Believe me, you and your son will not survive this. You have said nothing of any value to the _Sûreté_ thus far, and that alone has kept you alive. But now I ask you again, return to me what is mine."

Christine turned back to her satchel, praying for a means of escape. The man would most definitely kill her if she didn't produce whatever it was he sought. And Jean-Paul…no, not her little boy! She must reach Norry and warn him before it was too late…_My God, help me, save me, somehow…_

_She remembered Mme. Giry's words to her, just the night before. Something to protect herself with…her dagger, of course! It was there, tucked at her side behind the sash at her waist, under her cloak. Could she possibly?_

Swallowing back her sobs, she cleared her throat. "Monsieur, excuse me, I am frightened, and did not understand your meaning before. Yes, I have it in my satchel. If I leave it with you, do I have your word that you will leave me and my family alone?" She sucked in her lip, hoping against hope that her eyes would not betray her, that he would not call her bluff.

"Oh course, my lady Comtesse. No more notes, you have my word," he lied smoothly, not even attempting to mask his deceit. _It had been him, then, as suspected. He was "them." He is the one that has stalked me, threatened me, and murdered our little Perri. Now, at least, I have a person to put with my sinister hunter. _

Rage against this man swelled in her breast, spilling into every fiber of her being. Reaching around to her satchel, she instead whipped her hand under her cloak, swiftly drawing the dagger. Striking blindly in anger, she sliced the back of her attacker's hand; in his shock, he dropped his knife, clutching at the wound.

Now was her chance! Again, she threw her shoulder against the door once, twice; the third it gave a little. The man scrambled on the floor for his knife, clutching at her ankle. Heaving, she sent her entire body crashing into the exit of the brougham; the door gave way, swinging open, her hand still clinging to the handle. The road swept dizzily underneath her, causing her insides to spin nauseously. Viciously kicking her captor's hands away, Christine tumbled out of the cab onto the cobblestone, rolling over to the side of the road. Wheezing as the wind left her body, she twisted to lay her face upon the cool stone, too stunned to move.

And then her attacker was on top of her, pushing her shoulders back, knife pressed into her throat. With everything that she had, she wrenched away from his grasp, clawing against him, kicking him away; a wild scream tore from her throat, echoing in the air. Then the weight lifted, and she looked up to see two men hauling him away, holding him to the ground, his face still shrouded. A little further down the road, a man was holding the frightened horses of the cab at bay; several more were in the process of apprehending the driver.

Gasping for air, she clasped someone's hand, and was pulled to her feet. She sagged, leaning against the person for support, great sobs racking her tiny frame.

"I say, Mademoiselle; that was a nasty scene. Are you quite alright?" questioned a baffled voice. Christine pressed her fingers to her throbbing collarbone, and a searing pain ripped through her shoulder. "Oh look, you are bleeding!" cried the man. "We must get you to a doctor…"

"I was just on my way…" she panted, letting herself be lead away by the gentleman at her side. He raised a hand, hailing a brougham. As the carriage rumbled to a halt, he reached around her to open the door. Assisting Christine in, he began to climb in behind her, but with a quick start, she pushed him away and swung the door shut, shutting the stunned man out.

"Thank you for your help, Monsieur, but I prefer to travel alone," she called out. "_8 Rue Freumont_, in the_ 16th Arrondissement_, please." She leaned back in relieved exhaustion, pressing her shawl to the knife wound at her collarbone, wincing at the sting.

* * *

"I am sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you just say that he wears a mask?" The elderly doctor's hand paused above her shoulder, antiseptic from the cotton dribbling down his arm. Christine grasped the folds of her dirty skirt in her fingers, knuckles stiff and white.

"Yes," she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes tearing from the sting of her wound. "He has worn one since birth, to cover a deformity on the side of his face." Hesitating, she added, "I only mention this, Dr. Sablet, because he is rather…eccentric about it. It would be best to never brooch the subject." The doctor's carriage gave a slight lurch, slightly jarring Christine's shoulder; she sucked in her breath at the twinge in her collarbone. _I suppose the wound could have been much worse – he could have missed my shoulder, and cut my throat instead_, she thought grimly.

"My lady Comtesse, I am sorry for your pain, but you _are_ the one that insisted I treat you in the carriage, as opposed to my home." The doctor, but minutes ago, had opened the door to a hysterical, bedraggled Christine, babbling about a man with pneumonia, and how he must come as quickly as possible. In his bafflement, it was all he could do to grab up his bag, and the supplies to treat her shoulder. Now that he had examined the wound more closely, his suspicions were confirmed.

Something, or someone, was troubling the young woman, of that he was sure. As he had been making the preparations to leave, he could not help but overhear her hurried words to his valet, begging him to take a message to her estate_. "You must only speak directly with Norry – no one else. Tell him my son must be taken away from the Paris home as soon as possible, with no time to spare…he will understand my meaning… Have him send word to me of their location …yes, he knows how to reach me; you need not tell him…Urgency is imperative, please make that very clear…"_

Sighing, he tried to think of how to word his concerns delicately, without upsetting the young woman.

"That is quite a scratch you have, Madame, but it should heal nicely, without any scarring. However, you may want to wear a shawl over the bandages the next few days or so, if you wish to avoid…unwelcome questions." He said nothing more as he finished cleaning and bandaging her shoulder, letting his words hang in the air. Turning to put his supplies away, his eyes swept over the widow in fatherly concern. She was too thin since he had last seen her, even more so than after the Comte's illness. Over the past month or two, she had lost at least half a stone, which was too much for a tiny frame like hers. Dark circles and the pallor of her skin betrayed many nights without slumber, and, most likely, a poor diet. "Christine, dear, I am anxious for you, not only as your doctor, but as a friend. Please tell me what has happened." The Comtesse made no move to answer, but instead looked intently out the window, thoughts far away.

"You know, I have been in private practice for a long time. Over those years, I have seen many wounds such as this, and have been paid quite a lot to pretend I never saw them," he chuckled. "But," he continued, now in grave earnest, "I have never seen one that has worried me so."

It would have been so easy to pour out the terror of the day to the elderly doctor. She knew she could trust him implicitly; he had been there when Jean-Paul was born. And all the long nights during Raoul's illness—Dr. Sablet had been the one to pull the sheet over her husband's beautiful face. In the aftermath, his family had been very good to her. She couldn't risk involving them in the chaos that was her life, bring hardship to their peaceful existence. And that was why she answered as she did, as briefly and firmly as possible. "A man tried to rob me – it is of no consequence."

Christine had evaded his true question. She was sure Dr. Sablet saw through the partial truth (her attacker _had_ tried to rob her, of what was unclear) but said no more, too much of a gentleman to pry into her personal affairs. The subject was not brought up again through the remaining ride to the _Opera Populaire_, and upon arrival was forgotten entirely; all attention was diverted to the sick "Madame Giry" entrenched in the opera house chambers.

* * *

"_I give you, the Devil's Child!" Colors swirl, light and darkness mingling, spinning…the faces. So many faces…old and shriveled, lovely and young, all beautiful, perfect and terrible…don't look at the faces! Scowling, snarling faces…livid faces. Laughing –mocking. Children are screaming, crying…crying because they are afraid, afraid of my face. Cover my face, I must cover it so they won't scream…The whip. Now the whip comes, because I covered my face…he raises it…CRACK…the fire! I am on fire, someone put out the fire!… take away the whip, to stop the fire…_

"_Has he coughed?" the old face asks. "He must cough." _

_More laughter, seductive and evil…"Yes, he must! We must put him in a cage where he belongs, with the animals"…the woman under the veil, at the balcony… "I have chosen to honor you today, Erik"…she flushes behind the lattice with shame…she will have me killed—I am a dead man. The skeletons dance, round the coffin…rise, from the coffin…Daroga is here, begging me to leave…I cannot leave, because of the weight. The blankets, so heavy…_

"_Drink this, Monsieur, it is quinine…" The old man again. Cool liquid, in my throat…tastes like poison…I have been poisoned…_

_My mother stands over me, gazing tenderly…tears run down her cheeks. Her hand massages my chest, circular, something hot and burning. No, it is not my mother, she would never touch me—it is Christine…beautiful, sad Christine…a horrible stench floods my nostrils… "a mustard poultice, Erik. It will help with the infection in your lungs…" _

_My mask! She has taken off my mask…oh Christine…"My mask, return it to me!" I cry. "You must—can you even bear to look?" Her soft voice…"No one else is in the room, Erik, except for me; you need not worry…face is so hot, the fever," she murmurs…_

_Christine, leave me… leave me to my demons, here in the dark…night…_

* * *

Christine sat on the floor next to the bed, knees and ankles tucked under her skirts, feet tingling from several hours' stillness. One hand rested in her lap; the other lightly touching the wrist of her beloved Angel. Candles flickered dimly about the room, casting odd shadows upon the walls. _It was night now; it had been so for several hours. This was their time to thrive, the tranquil hours before dawn when the entire world was silently dreaming, and they would make beautiful music together…_

She laid her head against the downy mantle and gazed upon her maestro's face, now maskless after his raging fever. What nightmares he had suffered through. A few, she had been able to follow, see what he was seeing. Most, however, had been full of unspeakable horrors she had only guessed at before. The woman shuddered at the brutal cries that had risen from his fever-ravished body, piercing the quiet of the sickroom.

But now he was sleeping peacefully, thank God, the quinine having driven the fever from him only an hour ago. And he was finally coughing, the infection loosened by the mustard poultice she had diligently applied, according to Dr. Sablet's instruction, every fifteen minutes. She held her hand up to the light, studying its redness—the hot poultice had burned and blistered her palm in several places. The good doctor had applied a salve to it, but the heat still throbbed tenderly through her fingers. He had offered to take over the administration of the poultice, but she had stubbornly refused, insisting that she finish what she had started.

Christine gazed upon her maestro's face again. She was playing with fire, but like the proverbial moth to the flame, she could not pull away. _Yes, it is horrible and beautiful, there is no denying that. Twisted and deformed, striking and dignified…Much like the man himself, _she mused.

When was it that she had stopped fearing this face? Oh, his black moods frightened her, to be sure, but never his face. Even after three years, it still haunted her dreams… dreams full of fascination, longing, even passion, but never fear. And now his face was before her once more, gloriously naked for her eyes only. She had forgotten the grisly minute details; her memory had softened and distilled the distortions that made it so frightful to gaze upon.

It was a gruesome face.

_And she loved this face, because it was his…_

A slight coughing broke into her trance – her eyes flew up to meet the gold of his, open and alert. Embarrassment reddened her face, and she panicked at the thought that she had been caught staring.

Puzzlement at Christine's flush crossed Erik's face; then a moment later, it was wiped away as realization flooded into him. Cursing, his hand flew to cover his face. He leapt from his bed, grabbed his mask, and slipped it on again. Rounding on her, he took her roughly by the shoulders, shaking her heatedly. "How dare you—damn your—curious—little—" Erik gasped out, heavy coughs racking through his body. He let her go, falling weakly to his hands and knees as the spasms tore from his throat. Christine cried out in pain, her hand flying to the throbbing injury. She gingerly reached under her shawl to touch her shoulder, then glanced down at her fingers; it was bleeding again. Tremulously, she knelt next to Erik. Her hands hovered and waved about his person, never touching him, not knowing quite what to do to alleviate his suffering.

Dr. Sablet rushed through the door, and spotting the quaking man on the floor, grabbed a basin, and swiftly pushed it underneath him. Erik coughed and heaved the infection for several minutes. Finally spent, he collapsed to the floor, resting his head on his forearm.

The elderly doctor took a cloth and dipped it in the water-filled basin on the nightstand, twisted and rung it, then bent over and placed the wet cloth across the back of his neck. "Well," he said, righting again, "I think perhaps you shall recover, Monsieur. Now that your fever has broken and the lungs have somewhat cleared, I believe it is safe for me to take my leave. You have an excellent nurse in the Comtesse to attend to you." Christine breathed a shaky sigh of relief, her nerves tattered and raw.

"Yes," Erik acidly muttered on the floor, "very good indeed."

"I recommend at least a week's bed-rest," continued Dr. Sablet, pretending not to have heard the sardonic remark, "and no venturing out-of-doors, of course. You should only have broths for the next two days, then soft foods for the rest of the week," the doctor inclined his head slightly to Christine, making sure she understood his directions.

Dr. Sablet thought carefully for a moment, wanting somehow to make the sick man realize how close to death he had come. Had it not been for the Comtesse de Chagny's interference, he surely would be in his grave. But any mention of his indebtedness to Christine would most likely have the reverse effect than the one he sought; for some reason, he bristled at the mere mention of her name. So, not knowing what else to say to the bitter man, Dr. Sablet took his leave. "Goodbye, Monsieur," the doctor finished stiffly. Erik nodded slightly in response, noticeably glad to see the gentleman go.

After the doctor took leave of the Giry's in the next room, Christine walked her friend from the chambers and through the hallways to the opera foyer. She reticently bid him goodbye, well aware that this might be the last time they would meet for awhile.

"My dear Comtesse, please try to get some sleep. And remember to clean and change the dressings on that cut every day. I have left some of the antiseptic and bandages for you," sighed the old doctor, reluctant to leave her here with the strange man. "Please don't run yourself ragged, either. I don't know what is going on, Christine, but I am uneasy for your safety."

"Dear Dr. Sablet, how can I ever thank you for all of your kindnesses to my family and me?" She reached up and gave the gentleman a tiny peck on the cheek. "I promise to get take care of myself," she said rather sweetly, and had the doctor not known her better, he would have distinctly believed that she was patronizing him.

* * *

Sighing, Christine went to Erik's bed, straightened the sheets and replaced the quilt that had been dragged to the floor in his sudden outburst. She picked up the pillow, fluffed it up, then folded back the bedding, running a hand swiftly over the surface, smoothing the wrinkles from them. She then turned to Erik and awkwardly reached out her hands to offer assistance. He was still seething at her, barely contained rage seeping from every pore. "No, my dear," he hissed, "I believe I shall refrain from accepting any help from you. Your brand of 'help' seems to do me more harm than good."

Irritated, the little diva jerked away her hands and forcefully turned her back to the man on the floor. "Very well then, Erik—do as you please. I will not offer to assist you again, unless you want me to," she spat back. She felt his eyes boring holes into her, first with anger, then shock that she did not flee the room in tears. She supposed she was rather astonished herself.

Christine had never really boasted much of a spine when it came to her teacher, too fearful of his fits of temper. Over the past three years, however, she had been forced to hold her ground on several different occasions, especially after Raoul had died. She had felt the vultures of the French aristocracy swooping greedily around her little boy's estate, in the form of friendly loans, patronages, lucrative business offerings. It was in those circumstances that she had been strong for Jean-Paul, and had discovered how to say "no." _But Erik has not witnessed this, knows nothing of my life from the moment that I left his side those years ago; of course he would be surprised to find that I can hold my own against him…somewhat…_

Resigned, Erik fell back into the bed, too exhausted to be angry, too drained from sickness to clash with her. "Christine," he sighed wearily, "I am afraid you are still too much of a child to not take what I am about to say as anything but an insult, but you must understand this." Eyes slitting slightly, he waited for her nod to continue. "I am grateful to you for finding me in the cellars, and tending to me in my sickness, but I think it is time for you to leave," he said succinctly. For a moment he hesitated, almost relenting as he saw the tears gathering in the young woman's eyes. He shook the urge away, persisting. "You are like a poison to me, a drug," he whispered, "perhaps unintentionally, but just as toxic. Since the moment you left with that boy, I have painfully struggled to clean you from my system, rid myself of the need of you. To allow your poison back into my life would be my death sentence—" his last words choked from his throat as another fit of coughing rumbled through him.

Rising gracefully, Christine reached over to give him a cloth, the tears now streaming down her face. He took it from her proffered hand, lightly mingling his long, thin fingers with hers. A charge shot through his hand, up his arm at the slight touch, and as she began to pull away, he entwined his fingers in hers, firmly grasping her hand.

_One last indulgence, just one, and then I shall let her go…_Slowly, piercing eyes never leaving hers, he pulled her down to the side of the bed, level with his face. His hands gently cupped her head, fingers entangled in her hair. He pushed a few stray curls away from her wet cheeks and swept his thumbs under her eyes, wiping away the falling tears. Her eyes closed…a small sigh escaped her lips as she pressed her cheek into his palm, hand reaching up to cover his. He pulled her lovely, perfect face towards him, inch by inch, and tilted her head down, brushing his lips across her forehead in a feathery caress. He lingered there, reveling in the scent of her hair, the closeness of her skin…

_Oh Christine, I shall breathe your name when I die…_

And then Erik released her, forcefully pushing her away from him in self-loathing, twisting his passion-ridden face away. Inhaling deeply for several moments, then coughing slightly at the intake of air, he managed to compose his features, drop the figurative mask into place. Turning back to her, he fixed a frosty gaze on the trembling mess before him. She was as she had always been—weak, sobbing—nothing had changed.

"Go home to your husband, Comtesse," he stated flatly, removing his muted gold eyes from her face and fixing them on some far-away point across the room.

Christine froze at his words, shock coursing through her blood. _Was it possible that he had not heard, despite the gossip that had flown about Paris? Of course he hadn't; he truly knew nothing of her life since that night…_

"Erik," she whispered, her astonished pain palpable in the still-charged air. "Raoul is dead…almost five months ago."


	7. Hour of the Child

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

**Side Notes:**  
Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

Now we're starting to go somewhere…

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they are!_

**Hour of the Child**

_The boy– the one I have hated for so long, have cursed with every breath for taking away Christine—is dead. He has been gone for five months…that would place his death in June. _

_What had I been doing in late spring, when the Comte de Chagny was committed to the ground? No doubt I was perfecting my dungeon, my prison—piecing my shattered furniture back together, recopying destroyed music, and all the while, bitterly visualizing the blissful couple strolling through the fashionable Parisian gardens in the warm sun; Christine innocently gazing up at him, her bright eyes full of love and promises. And I detested their happiness, something that would forever be denied me. _

_Yet all the time, the boy had been wasting away from the horrifying disease._

_And, Dieu me pardonnent, I am glad for it! My heart soars as Christine tells of the illness and the pain that her dying husband had suffered through; of how he had cried when he was told he must leave his family behind because there was no cure for what plagued him. I rejoice that in the end, de Chagny had been forced to forfeit the prize he had fought so hard for. _

_The boy was correct. What a cold, despicable monster I am. _

* * *

"Erik, please say something. At least do me the courtesy of looking in my direction!" The fact that he betrayed no emotion, no incredulity whatsoever at what she had just described disconcerted Christine. Tears streaming down her face, she had told him the painful story of Raoul's death, had opened her soul to him once again, only to be let down by his lack of empathy as he continued to stare at some invisible point on the wall. Surely he must feel _something_ – his heart was not so icy that he would feel no pity for the man who had loved her.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to clear the fuzziness claiming her mind. How long had it been since she truly had a decent night's sleep? Four, five days ago? And Erik was sick; only hours before, a raging fever had consumed him. They were both exhausted, ill, drained…_no good can come from having this discussion now…_

"What would you have me say, Christine? That I am sorry he is dead; that it is tragic his life was cut short? I have always had a difficult time feeling pity for the human race—you know that. And I would be lying to you if I said that I mourn him, because I do not," he uttered passionately. Then recollecting himself, he continued in a softer vein.

"But I do regret that you have suffered because of it."

Erik paused a moment as if to assemble his thoughts, but Christine saw that he was tiring. What little color that had appeared in his face was fading away again, replaced by a sickly pallor. His hands were trembling slightly, but whether from exhaustion or emotion was unclear. This conversation was rapidly depleting him, and he would not be awake much longer. She waited patiently as he closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and began again.

"The truth is that I resent him," Erik sighed. "I envy him because he was given all the things of this world that I could never have. He died a happy man, asleep in his bed with his loving wife by his side. What more could a man ask?"

Christine shook her head in adamant disagreement. "He did not die a happy man, Erik, I just told you. He died a _troubled _man. There were many things left undone, unsaid. Oh, we had our happy times, to be sure, but from the day we married to the time of his death, something gripped him in fear. And I am afraid I did not help him much. I was often rather cruel to him, though I did not mean to be."

Erik snorted scornfully. "Of course you did not _mean_ to be cruel to the poor fellow – but then you never _mean_ to be cruel, do you my dear?"

Christine gazed at him in wide-eyed disbelief, confused at his sudden shift in mood. She hadn't understood what he had just alleged to her—he was painfully aware of it. And then as suddenly as it had appeared, all derisiveness left his voice, and his shoulders slumped in resignation.

"Why do you seek me out now?" He shuddered as he coughed several times, and then held up a hand to stop Christine as she rose to assist him. "Has it finally come to pass that you just had to know what had befallen your poor Angel, and decided to sate your curiosity? Or did you truly believe me dead, and came to pay your last respects?"

"I need your help, Erik," the girl whispered, fearful to bring up the subject after the last scolding she had received.

Erik sighed. "Yes, of course you do. You would not have come for _any_ other reason, than to seek my assistance. I suppose this has something to do with the boy's troubles. Go on, child."

"I must leave Paris in two days time, and I would like you to join me wherever I am sent to, when you have recovered…" She paused as a skeptical look passed across his face. "Perhaps this can wait until you have rested, Erik—" she began softly, but Erik shook his head, cutting her off.

"I said go on. My patience is wearing thin."

So Christine told him of Raoul's mysterious trips, the way he would evade the questions she had. She spoke of how his fears had now become hers, of all the notes, the threats, of how the _Sûreté_ would not help her, because they thought her story a rather doubtful one after the fiasco at the opera. Erik couldn't help but smile fiendishly at this admission; _Christine—meek, innocent Christine—an agitator? She, a suspicious character, and at odds with the police of Paris! _…But when she shot him an injured look, offended by his lack of seriousness, he wiped all traces of the smirk from his face. She continued, her chain of thought unbroken.

"And then, the man murdered little Perri, the son of one of our servants." Erik sat up at this, her words forcing him to solemnity. Strange, threatening notes were one thing, but for someone to kill an innocent child…it was disturbing.

She continued, aware of Erik's sudden alertness. "Still, the _Sûreté_ _did nothing!_ So I came here for help. You see, Raoul left a note…"

"Implying that I could assist you," he filled in, his quick mind fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Indirectly. He sent me to Mme. Giry." Christine glanced down at her hands and saw that she had been wringing them, her fingers clasped so tightly to each other that little nail imprints were scattered across her palms.

"And Mme. Giry, in turn, led you to me. So the boy did know I was alive, after all. I was always a bit unsure about that…" he said thoughtfully, no trace of scorn in his voice.

"When he came to bury—"

Erik's eyes snapped to attention, and disdain once again flooded into his being. "Ah yes, the task that you had so faithfully promised to carry out; a last pledge of devotion to your fallen Angel of Music. When he and his two idiot servants came traipsing about my home, I never quite had the heart to finish him off. After all, he was there to consecrate me to the ground; the nobler of services that one man can afford another. Tell me, my_ Angel_," he muttered bitterly, "when you sent your husband to do the miserable task for you, did you weep for a full afternoon, or had your tears dried by teatime?"

The waves of guilt and grief from that day long ago washed over Christine once more, and she fell to her knees at the side of the bed, her hands desperately grasping her teacher's arm. "Erik – the day I read of your death in the _Epoque_ was the day my soul died. How I wanted to come back to do as I promised! I pleaded with Raoul, begged him to let me go to you. But it was no use…he did not permit it."

"Of course, a few tears of disappointment were nothing compared to the wrath of a husband angered by his wife's disobedience!" Erik scoffed sardonically, gold eyes now flashing with unabashed anger.

"Erik, please, I beg of you—do not make light of my suffering," Christine cried, once again reduced to sobbing disarray.

And then the angry light darkened dangerously, a storm brewing just under the surface, ready to release its fury at any moment. His mouth twisted, low voice barely above a whisper… "Suffering…. what do you even know of suffering? There are things I could tell you that would make your spirit shrivel in absolute misery. The cruelties, the indignities that men will inflict on another, a _child_ even, all for the sake of a measly profit." His eyes bore into hers now, pulling her into his madness; all the terrors, the ghosts of his past manifesting for her to see.

"The 'living corpse' is what they called me. Imagine a little boy, Christine, locked in a cage by gypsies, his spirit rotting, crumbling beyond repair. Night after night, he is made to perform like a dog for crowds of jeering, mocking humans that throw things at him, torture him with their words. Whipped and beaten, flesh torn to pieces, his body broken…all to keep his clever mind from rising against them. He is _forced_ to separate himself from all humanity—he has no other choice! For the sake of survival, to save himself from going mad in his loneliness, his _anguish_—"

"No more—I can hear no more!" Christine covered her face, shaken by the horror of his words. "Please Erik—_I have a child!_ A little boy…" Her voice broke in her throat, the lump that had formed there not allowing her to finish. Putting an arm out to steady herself, she lowered her shuddering frame to the ground and buried her face in the blankets. Breathing deeply, she tried to slow the pounding in her chest.

So she did not see the shock that suffused every crevice of Erik's face; his mouth gaping in mute disbelief at her cry. Then, slowly, the light of understanding came over him, as he thought through some of her previous words and actions. Christine, bending over him, face filled with concern at his rising fever…Her soft little hand unconsciously smoothing over the sheets of his bed…how she had comforted him during his nightmarish delusions throughout the night. And there were the obvious physical changes, however small on Christine's tiny frame, which came with childbearing. Her lovely figure had lost some of its boyishness, and now softly curved at her breasts and hips. How had he not realized it before?

"I have a son," she stated simply, now in complete control of her faculties. "I love him with everything that is in me. I cannot describe to you how precious he is; even now my very being _aches_ to have him at my side." Her features clouded, once again remembering Erik's past. "And if the inhuman monster that hunts us ever does to him what has been done to you…I shall go mad, as well."

Erik nodded; he did not doubt her at all, now feeling rather guilty at his earlier words to her. After all, she had been seeking help for her son as well as for herself. He forced his cloudy mind to review their conversation once again, in light of his new knowledge. _Raoul, sad to leave his family behind…she was afraid for 'us,' meaning she and her son…_But the revelations of the past few minutes were too much—he could think about Christine's little child no more. And then he could not fight the darkness, too worn to move, to open his eyes, to even cough. As his head wearily dropped to his pillow, sleep finally claimed him prisoner.

Not long after Erik gave in to his exhaustion, Mme. Giry returned to the room for her shift. Instead of one slumbering person, she found two; Christine was curled next to the ill man, sleeping soundly, her hand resting lightly over his heart.

The ballet mistress shook her gently to rouse her, and with a steady arm, guided the dazed girl through the door to the adjoining room. The young woman collapsed in a heap on the settee next to the fireplace, not even bothering to remove her shoes. Lifting a blanket, Mme. Giry dropped it gently over her shoulders and slipped back to the sick room.

The corners of the woman's mouth turned up gently, the smile seemingly out-of-place on her stern face. It had been hard not to listen to the raised voices floating through the wall. _Ah, I had forgotten the things one says and does when in love…_

­

* * *

Meg gave a final tug to the laces on the back of Christine's dress, cinching them as tightly as they would go, looped them, and tucked them away.

"It doesn't fit very well, does it?" frowned the little dancer, gathering in two inches of extra fabric at the Comtesse's waist. "However, it does fit at the bust, which it never did before," she teased, "but it's still loose everywhere else. You are too thin now, Christine – we used to be able to share clothes." She turned to the top drawer of her bureau, fished out a filmy silver scarf, and deftly wrapped in around her friend's middle, folding the extra material under.

Christine brushed away the comment, and clasped her friend's hand. "Thank you for your assistance with the dress, Meg, and for bandaging my shoulder. The dress is perfect, such a lovely dark shade of gray. And with the scarf, no one will even notice that it's a little big. I'm not worried about impressions today, anyway," the Comtesse said smoothly, knowing full well that the last bit was only partly true.

Christine lowered herself to the rug at the fireplace, tilted her head, and ran her fingers through her wet mass of curls. She dried her hands on the towel that lay across her lap, and held her hand to her clean face. Sighing in contentment, she leaned back on her elbow, allowing the heat from the fire to dry her hair. It felt good to finally be rid of the layer of dirt and grime that had collected on her clothing and skin. She had not even realized how filthy she had been until she awoke from her six hours' sleep, staggered across the room on stiff legs, and stopped dead in front of the full-length mirror. Was that ghastly, grimy girl staring back really her? Her hair was a mass of tangles, splotches of mud still spotted her neck and arms. Most of the dirt on her face had been washed away by her tears, but had left brown little paths running the length of her cheeks and chin. Covering her face in horror, she let out a little yelp and ran from the mirror straight to the bath.

_What had Erik thought when he saw my scruffy appearance?_ _He was either too kind to bring it up, or too sick to notice_, she thought, praying for the latter. She shook her head, trying to clear away the embarrassment at the thought.

"Christine, have you eaten anything yet today?" asked the little dancer, placing a few leftover tea sandwiches on a plate. The Comtesse shook her head, and gratefully took the proffered plate from her friend's hands. Tidying up the excess bandages and medicines, Meg noticed Christine's wrap in the corner where she had left it before her bath, taking in its ragged, bloodstained state.

"You won't want to keep this, will you? It seems to be beyond repair," she called over to her friend, lifting the scarf up for her to see. Something light and shiny slithered from its folds, and fell to the floor. Meg's eyes searched the ground for the object, and detected a thin chain lying next to her foot. As she bent to pick it up, she saw that it was indeed not a pendant, but a ring. She held the chain in front of her, letting the unadorned band swing back and forth, and wondered at its significance. This was not Raoul's intricate diamond ring…

Meg sauntered over to her friend at the fireplace, dangling the ring from her finger. "My dear Comtesse," the little dancer teased, I believe you may be missing a piece of jewelry; perhaps a ring?" Christine's face flushed a deep red at her discovered token, and grabbed the band from her friend, quickly placing it around her neck, tucking it away.

"It is nothing…just a sentimental gesture."

Meg, however, was not one to be put off so easily when there was a secret to be found out. Plopping down next to her friend, she began searching for answers. "Tell me Christine, do you have a lover hidden away? Perhaps in the adjoining room?" The little diva's cheeks turned a deeper shade, telling everything her words did not. "Come now, you must tell me!" The girl's features alighted mischievously, daring her friend to do exactly as she had asked. She was rather disappointed, however, when the Comtesse did not grasp her hands in confidence as she used to, but instead, turned her face away sadly, staring into the fire.

"You should not say such things, Meg," she sighed. "I have not taken a lover, nor do I have any plans to." Christine turned back to the little dancer, eyes now lightly teasing back. "Even if I had any desire to, I cannot now, or any time soon, for that matter." The woman smiled playfully, putting a hand to her forehead melodramatically. "Alas, I am still a widow in mourning, and must grieve for another year and six months yet, or I shall be shunned from Paris society forever! Or so my dear sister-in-law warned, fearing I would take a fancy to the next man that walked into the room."

"But Christine," Meg whispered, "you shall not be in Paris for long."

"No," the woman murmured, eyes turned back to the firelight. "I shall not be."

A quiet sadness seeped into the air, neither woman feeling the necessity to break the silence. But all too soon, the moment ended as loud footsteps pounded down the hall, sending both women jumping to their feet in surprise. A screechy voice reached their ears, making it quickly apparent who it was that descended upon them, about to grace their presence.

"I tell you, she is there! She is there in the room, and where she is, he also is. Giry, sick –ha! She 'as never been sick a day. So if she stays, then I am gone…"

"Señora, please listen, perhaps the dancer—what was her name, André?"

"Jammes."

"Yes, it could be that she was mistaken. After all, we have not heard from the Opera Ghost—"

"A man, Firmin. O.G. was a man."

"Yes yes, we have not heard anything for three and a half years."

The voice screeched again. "Bah – you amateurs know nothing; the man, he lies in wait, ready to pounce you both. No, no, I 'ave told you, and that is Carlotta's word! I want her gone—away!"

The two young women had not wasted time while the small party approached. Any traces of Erik's presence had been swept away, doors firmly shut, muddy shoes and cloaks tucked into the closet.

The footsteps stopped at the door, and then came the dreaded knock. "Christine Daaé, we know you are there!" cried Carlotta, almost triumphant in her discovery.

"_Comtesse de Chagny_, Señora —_Comtesse_!" hissed M. André, his red face suddenly beaming as the door swung open to reveal the very woman spoken of.

"Messieurs. Señora," Christine greeted them warmly, allowing them to step into the room. Gesturing to the settee, she seated herself prettily in the armchair, the perfect hostess. The men stood as the prima donna swept onto the settee, leaving them no room to sit. Instead, they flanked either side of her, as if guards attending to their queen.

"You are here to inquire after my mother, messieurs?" said Meg rather timidly, anxiously looking to the closed door of the bedroom.

M. Firmin cleared his throat, glancing nervously from the Comtesse to La Carlotta. "We were rather hoping to visit with her, yes Mademoiselle."

Catching the slight shake of Christine's head, Meg turned to her guests, gathering her courage. "I am afraid, M. Firmin, that my mother is very ill, and is not accepting visitors at this moment. Perhaps if you returned in a few days' time—"

"I do not believe it!" interrupted the Spanish diva loudly, waving her hand about her head. "There is that man, that _Phantom_ in there—why else would she send for her personal doctor, I ask you?"

M. André made a move as if to silence the soprano, but pulled back at the last moment. Embarrassment at the singer's insinuations once again reddened his face. "Comtesse, I deeply apologize, but there have been some…suggestions that perhaps, well…" his words died away as he gazed around the room, taking in the bottles of medicine, the basins, all the apparent signs of illness.

"Suggestions of what, M. André?" wheezed the stern voice, coming from the back of the room. "That Christine and Marguerite have been keeping the Opera Ghost under lock and key… a prisoner of my bedroom?"

The woman had slipped quietly through the door, shutting it firmly behind her without as much as a squeak. The ballet mistress looked haggard; dark circles under her eyes, protruding cheekbones, pasty complexion. Her shoulders hunched over dreadfully, trembling with fever and fatigue. Both Firmin and André moved to her side, helping her to the chair that Meg vacated. She leaned back wearily into its depth, wrapping her shawl tightly around her body.

Carlotta could only look on in irritated shock; she had been so sure that her formal rival would be caught up in scandal, shown to be the lying little toad that she was. "But, the private doctor…" was all she managed to sputter out.

"Christine was so concerned for my mother, she sent for her personal physician, sparing no expense, knowing that he would come right away," cried little Giry, basking in the glow of her friend's silent approval.

Christine nodded in affirmation, finding her voice again after the astonishing appearance of Mme. Giry. "This is true. To think that I would be harboring…_that man_…after all that he put me through? It is preposterous. Messieurs, I have fought long and hard to have all such rumors of this sort squashed from circulation." She elegantly rose, walking over to the small secretary in the corner. Pulling out a piece of paper, she took a pen and scribbled out a brief message. Folding the note, she addressed and sealed it, then turned back to her observers, lightly tapping the message against her palm.

"I have in my hand a letter to my _Avocat_, instructing that the Chagny patronage of the _Opéra Populaire_ be reinstated, in the amount of 20,000 francs per month." The managers stared greedily at the piece of paper, impatiently waiting for the Comtesse to continue. The subtle gibe in the form of the promised monetary value passed over them completely. "However, in order for this to be sent, I must ask that you refrain from disturbing Mme. Giry for the next week, until her convalescence is over. I also request that steps be taken to end the rumors of the Opera Ghost for good. He is long gone, and such lingering chatter can only bring harm to my family and me. Do I have your word?"

Both men crossed the room eagerly, nodding their agreement. "My lady Comtesse," cooed M. André, "I cannot begin to express how grateful—"

"You are very welcome, gentlemen," Christine gracefully interrupted them, handing them the letter, then motioned to the door. "Now Messieurs, Señora, if you please? I believe Mme. Giry should return to bed."

M. Firmin stood, offering his arm to the Spanish diva. Harrumphing at the gesture, she instead swept past the man and into the hallway, vain head held high in spite of the obvious debunking of her declarations. M. André followed, but remembering some forgotten task, he turned hurriedly back to the Comtesse, a message of his own to deliver.

"I almost forgot, Madame, this note was sent here not ten minutes ago for Mme. Giry." Bowing slightly, he quickly took his leave with the others.

Carlotta's shrill voice echoed down the hall. "A note! What did I tell you, he has returned—he is there!" and M. Firmin's exasperated response, more faintly. "Now Señora, if he were in the chamber, why would he bother with a note…"

* * *

After the voices had faded away, sighs of relief were breathed around the room. Mme. Giry smiled as she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the soot from her face. "Poor Señora Guidacelli. For once in her life, she was completely correct in her assumptions."

Meg beamed, still in awe of Christine's performance. "I have never seen anything like it! Seeing the managers grovel to please _you_ instead of La Carlotta. It was fantastic! Almost four years in Paris society, and you have already learned the art of throwing one's money around."

"Yes, a very fine show indeed," proclaimed the low raspy voice from the doorway, chuckling gleefully. All eyes quickly flew to the man leaning against the frame, arms folded across his chest. "You handled those two fools masterfully, my dear. I must admit, I am surprised at my Angel; you seem to have acquired a taste for negotiation over the past few years."

Although he was still extremely pale, his countenance seemed to have improved after the long, deep sleep. Christine noticed that at some point he must have bathed as well, because his hair was slicked back and still damp. He had also changed into a fresh set of clothing, but she hadn't the slightest clue where they had come from. _Mme. Giry and Meg have been busy while I slept, _she thought blessing them soundly. But his limbs still trembled, and Christine saw that he was leaning against the doorframe not so much for appearance, but for support. She walked over to the man and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I thank you for the compliment, Erik. Now, perhaps you should return…"

He took up her hand from his shoulder, and pulled her palm to his lips, tenderly kissing it. "Always so worried, so anxious, Christine. I shall be quite all right for a few minutes, trust me. I do wish to speak to you about something, however, that should not be put off any longer." Erik glanced down at her face, then out behind her, as if noticing the others in the room for the first time. Mme. Giry stood, fumbling with the note in her hands. Little Giry had backed all the way to the door, unsure of whether to duck away in fear, or stay to dissect the relationship between the strange man and her friend.

"Mademoiselle Giry, I do not believe we have ever officially met." Erik nodded at the panicked girl, soothing her nerves with his melodic voice. The girl could only nod in response, choking out a quiet "Monsieur."

"Christine," said the ballet mistress suddenly, crossing the room to the girl. "This message is for you. I believe it is the information you have been waiting for." The young woman quickly grabbed the paper from her proffered hand, skimming the contents.

_Mme. The Comtess de Chagny_

_In care of Mme. Giry of the Opéra Populaire_

_8 Rue Scribe, Paris_

_My Dear Madame,_

_I have met with your man, M. Norris Nitot, as requested, and arrangements have been made for your relocation to London. As secrecy seems to be necessary in this case, I have left all details with M. Nitot, to be imparted to you upon your arrival at the Gare Saint-Lazare railway station at seven o'clock this evening. There you shall meet the other travelers in your party: M. Nitot, his daughter, and the young Comte de Chagny. Again, as secrecy is necessary, you shall be traveling under assumed names, which are known only to M. Nitot and myself. _

_Madame, I am not sure if you have followed the buzz of Paris these past few hours, but the news of your attack, then subsequent escape of your attackers from the Sûreté has rapidly spread through all quarters. Yesterday, I took the liberty of removing your son and the Nitots to an inn after your message reached the estate. I can assure you that they were not followed, and their location remains undiscovered. _

_For your part, therefore, I highly encourage caution when traveling to the station this evening. Let me reassure you that the other members of your party shall do the same. It is_ _most definite that those who follow you know you are at the opera, and shall be watching for your departure. _

_And now, my dear lady, I wish you safe travels, and remain _

_Respectfully yours, _

_Monsieur Henri David, Avocat_

Christine's merriment had ceased, her hand trembling at the letter she held in her hand. All others in the room had become quiet as they saw the girl quickly pale and eyes widen in incredulity. She read the letter aloud, as if to confirm what was written.

"It is happening," she whispered. "I did not truly believe that it would until now, but it is time. I am to leave Paris, tonight, and must depart from the opera house within the hour. But I—I am not ready!" the young woman cried, looking around the room, not sure where to begin.

"Do not concern yourself with packing, my dear. Meg and I shall gather your things for you," said the ballet mistress, crossing the room to Christine's satchel. "Perhaps you should have your conversation now." The older woman's eyes flew to their faces, nodding her head towards the sick room.

"And I will gather up the medicines for your shoulder, Christine," called little Giry, sorting through the mix of bottles and bandages. "Would you like me to re-bandage it before you go?"

Uttering a swift "no thank you," Christine spun around to the bedroom door, only to fly straight into the chest of her Angel. He grasped her by the arms, pulling her into the bedroom, shutting the door soundly behind him.

"Christine, what the devil is going on?" he stammered, frantically searching her eyes for answers. "You told me that you were not to leave Paris for another two days. And what is wrong with your shoulder? He pulled away the shawl, running his fingers along the white bandage over her collarbone. She flinched at the touch, anticipating the rush of pain from the pressure to her wound. Instead, he delicately pulled the bandage away, eyes widening at the sight of the angry red knife wound.

"Tell me what happened yesterday," he firmly commanded, seating himself on the bed, lightly leaning against the post.

"Erik, I don't have much time—"

"For God's sake, Christine, tell me!" he cried, irritation evident in his voice.

The Comtesse swallowed, the events of yesterday racing through her mind. "I was going to fetch Dr. Sablet, when he apprehended me, forcing me into a brougham. He was evil, and cruel…the things he said! He put a knife to my throat…"

"What did he say to you?" Erik hissed, fury stirring up in his chest at the vast offense of the man.

"Strange things—most of it didn't make a bit of sense, and at the time, I was so frightened that I did not hear all of what he said. He wanted something from me, and that is why he took me. But he never even enlightened me to what it was he sought! He just assumed that I knew, that I'm holding it for some reason instead of taking it to the _Sûreté_."

"What else impressed you?"

"He hates the fact that I belong to the aristocracy—that much was perfectly clear. He dislikes money…"

"And…"

"I am thinking…"Christine's brow nit in concentration, going over the frightening events of the previous day. She thought of the way he moved, the sound of his voice, the feel and color of his clothing. And suddenly, it all came together. "Erik –he wasn't Parisian! I don't think he was even French. His dress was all wrong—from what I could see, anyway – he wore a cape. But the colors, the patterns and designs of the material were something I had never seen, even when I was a girl in Brittany. And the way he spoke; his accent was almost too perfect, too practiced."

Erik nodded, encouraging her to continue. "Did he hurt you in any other way, other than the cut?"

"No, only the wound at my collarbone." He exhaled in relief, hesitated a moment, then settled himself farther into the bed. Taking Christine's hand, he then drew her down to sit next to him, offering what comfort he could. Not willing to relinquish her fingers quite yet, he softly ran his thumbs over the tops of her knuckles, tracing the delicate tendons under her smooth, white skin. To his surprise, she did not pull away as he half expected she would, but closed her eyes, sighing contentedly.

And ever so slowly, she twisted under his arm, falling back into the soft folds of Erik's nightshirt. She let her head drop back gracefully onto his bony, sturdy shoulder, allowing her body be enveloped in the refuge of him. He did not protest her motions; instead, she felt him recline gently behind her, leaning against the headboard for support. His arm wrapped around her tiny waist, dragging her towards him; the other relinquished her hand and fell across her shoulders, under her neck. Ever so delicately, he ran his fingers up the soft curve of her neck, then down again, coming to rest just above the hollow of her throat, feeling her heart beat madly at his touch.

He smiled into her hair at the racing pulse, and tilted his head down to bestow a soft kiss on her temple, resting his cheek against the silk of her curls. Inhaling deeply, he gloried in the freshness of her damp tresses that smelled of lavender, the sweetness of her clean skin…

"You look slightly better than when I saw you this morning," he murmured into her ear, his warm breath tickling her senses.

"Yes…as do you," she said breathlessly, barely able to muster any semblance of a voice, whatsoever. _So he had noticed…_

_This was how it is supposed to be! This is how I have remembered him, holding me like this, comforting me, loving me, soothing away my fears, heightening all the senses in my body. No quarrelling, no hate…only Erik…_

"Come to me in London…" she sighed, basking in the heat of his touch, oblivious to his response.

His fingers deftly traced an invisible line along her neckline, lightly brushing her bandaged wound, careful not to inflict any pain. They ran back again… along the chain at her neck…down…toying with the ring that hung there…_the ring!_

Christine quickly jumped away just as Erik lifted the ring to his eyes, curiosity coursing through him. She pulled it from his hands, and wrapping herself in her shawl, she quickly tucked away her secret once more.

But Erik had seen the gold glint of the dainty chain about her neck, looped through the plain band dangling from it. A wedding ring…_his ring_. He quickly averted his eyes and stalked over to the corner of the room, his face to the wall. Desperately, he struggled to grasp the significance of it.

_Why does she carry my ring, what meaning could it possibly have for her?…Oh God, I shall drown in my desires, my hopes, if I am not more guarded; just a moment ago, I had almost abandoned my carefully chosen words, merely content to hold her there against my heart forever, to promise her anything that she asked of me…_

But even if she did truly love me—I cannot even think it—how could that conceivably make any difference in what I am about to do?

His thoughts were interrupted by a firm knock at the door, and Mme. Giry hurriedly entered the room. "Forgive me," she said, "but Christine, you must be leaving soon, and we still haven't come up with any way to get you past that brute of a man."

Christine started for the door then turned swiftly back, pacing, trying to clear her foggy mind. "Perhaps there is another hidden door somewhere?" she questioned Erik, her eyes pleading with his for help.

"I suggest the front door." He smiled back at her sardonically as her she blinked in confusion, his mind playing at some little joke that she did not understand. "My dear," he patronized, "you _are _in an opera house. Surely you can find some sort of disguise?"

Christine huffed in irritation, unamused by his games. "And what would you suggest, Erik – one of Hannibal's slave girls? That would surely avoid any unwanted attention," she muttered sarcastically.

"No," he replied smoothly, studying his nails. "Perhaps we shall cast you as the page boy, instead of the countess."

"A boy, of course!" clapped little Giry, safely in the other room. "You could pass for a 15-year-old boy very well, Christine. I know just where to find something," she cried. "One of the young stagehands would do practically anything I asked of him." She made for the door, eager to help her friend.

"Wait!" Christine called after her. Pulling a little coin purse from her satchel, she placed several francs into the dancer's palm. "Give this to him to replace whatever you borrow. It is highly unlikely the clothing will be returned."

Nodding, little Giry ran through the door and down the hallway, seeking out the mysterious young stagehand.

* * *

Christine placed the final tuck in the waistband of the too-big pants, pulling the cloth belt a little tighter. Carefully, she pinned up the rest of her curls, checking to see that they were all placed under the rough wool of the page boy cap. Finished with the last touches, she turned in front of the mirror, checking her appearance. "I really do have the figure of a boy," she bemoaned, turning from her reflection, collecting her satchel.

"You have a lovely figure," Erik murmured, bending to plant a kiss on her forehead, careful to avoid knocking the cap from her head and ruining her hard work. And then he gathered her into his arms completely, heedless of the cap. He pressed her cheek to his heart as her arms flew around his waist, hugging him close. Holding her tightly for several minutes, he finally released her, turning towards the wall.

"Erik, once I settle in London, I will send word to M. David, my _Avocat_, to direct you to my home."

Uttering no response, he nodded his head with conviction, knowing that the time had come to do what he must do. _It is for you, Christine…please forgive me…_

Grief etched in every contour of his face, he began to speak slowly, not trusting his voice for fear of its betrayal. "I shall not be going to London, Christine," he whispered.

Wide blue eyes flew to his. "What?" she breathed, stunned.

"Christine, please hear me out," he said, still facing the wall. "I have told you many things over the past day, much in anger, some in delirium. But most of what I have imparted was in honesty—no, please do not come any closer," he stuttered, hearing the soft rustle of wool. "I wasn't lying when I said that I thought it was best for you to leave me; I still believe that to be true."

"But—"

"I beg you, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand for silence. "Things have changed over the past four years, we have become different people. I have no desire to leave my home for London, and I think you would rather not have a reclusive old bat on your hands, along with everything else. Your son could hardly appreciate it, either. He would be scared out of his mind by some brooding man hanging about, face covered by a mask!"

"He wouldn't! Oh, Erik, I can't accept this. Just minutes ago…" she uttered in disbelief, anger slowly brewing inside of her. "Give me the courtesy of the truth. At least I deserve that," she cried.

"Very well," he continued, his voice rising in irritation. He swung around to face her, stepping menacingly in her direction. "The truth is that I simply refuse to fight your battles for you, Christine. In your childlike ways, you beg for protection from anyone willing to offer it. Men have lined your doorstep—Raoul, myself—sad fools just waiting to kiss away your tears and promise to protect you from the evil things of this world. And you accept the help gladly, until all the things that scare you have been driven away; and you no longer have any use for the man."

Christine shook her head against his words, warding off their cruelty. "You can't mean that,' she spat, rage at his betrayal rising with the bile in her throat.

"I assure you, I do." And as the words left his mouth, he realized that he truly _had_ meant them.

A silence settled over the room, tensely hanging in the air like a dense fog, clouding around the teacher and pupil, swirling, masking the one from the other. Then it was not only silence that held them apart, but the unspoken words at the tip of the tongue, knowing that to release them would be to stumble blindly into the unknown, afraid of what would be revealed.

Erik was the first to dive in, his voice breaking with emotion. "Once I laid everything that I had at your feet – my music, my love, all that I had to give—I offered you. But you feared it, too frightened to grasp something so dark and beautiful, afraid of the consequences. Instead, you ran from me, betrayed me with that boy. I will not allow it to happen again." He turned away from her with finality, waiting for her to run from the room.

"Erik, I am in love with you."

Christine trembled at what she had just proclaimed, her head reeling. She watched her Angel keenly as his back stiffened in surprise, then loosen again. He turned slowly, almost menacingly, stalking towards her until she could feel his warm breath on her face. Slowly, he reached a hand up to her throat, running his icy fingers under her scratchy wool shirt, causing her to shudder. Then they closed tightly around the hidden ring, and with a swift jerking motion, her ripped it from her person.

"The things you will say to torture a man, my dear," he hissed softly, eyes gleaming with fury. "Love me? Impossible. Believe me, child, there is a darkness that runs deep within me, something you cannot begin to fathom." Glaring down at the gold in his hand, he whispered fiercely. "This is no longer yours to keep; I am taking it back." Pocketing the treasured band, he twisted towards the wall once again, wordlessly dismissing her.

* * *

Erik stood stoically at the window of the bedroom, curtains barely pulled back. He watched the young "boy" dart through crowds and across the road, arm raised for a cab. A brougham pulled up and the passenger climbed in, disappearing from his sight. He glanced up and down the road, looking for any signs of someone watching or moving to pursue the cab. After several minutes, he closed the curtain, shutting away the evening light, and tumbled into the bed, too exhausted by the afternoon to move. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he desperately pleaded with his mind to let him drift into the blissful oblivion of sleep, away from all the torturous words that had flown back and forth only minutes earlier.

"She was not lying to you, Monsieur," said a severe voice from the side of the bed. Mme. Giry moved to the vacated spot at the window, again pulling back the curtains, peering out onto the street. "She desperately needs assistance, and I am afraid you have fed her to the wolves."

"Do not fear for the girl, Madame," he mumbled, arm still draped across his face. "I do not intend to 'feed her to the wolves', as you put it. The Angel of Music has her under his wing."

The ballet mistress cleared her throat at the small quip, casting a stern look upon the man. "Angel indeed. Why did you let her believe she was alone in this, Monsieur? I am afraid I do not follow your logic."

Erik sighed, longing for the woman to leave him in peace. "For too long she has rambled about, uncertain of herself; I am afraid that I'm partly to blame for it, using that foolishness about the Angel of Music for my own purposes. But it is time for her to face her demons on her own, Madame. Christine has a young child to protect, and she can't do that when she doesn't even believe she can protect herself. It's time for her to grow up." He thought about his lovely Christine, and the way she had so deftly handled the managers. "Though I wish I could be there to see it," he mused sadly.

_

* * *

How dare he? After all that I have done to find him, what I have given up—I should have been with Jean-Paul these past few days, preparing to leave Paris, instead of traipsing about the city for a man who—_

—who she still loved desperately, despite the changes the years had brought about.

She rebuked herself in disgust – why had she assumed that he would scoop her up into his arms and play the hero, saving her and her son from the evil that chased them? She truly had not stopped reflect that after he had let her go all those years ago, perhaps he really had _let her go_…

Shaking her head to clear away the anger, Christine scanned the crowd once again, searching for Norry and Papi, and her dear little boy. Still in her wool pants and cap, she knew they would have a hard time spotting her. She waded through the sea of people, searching all the faces for a familiar one. Back and forth, through the lobby again, back to the London platform. Just as she was about to plop down on a bench in despair, a little one's cry caught her attention, and she spun around to see a jogging Papi chasing after her curly-headed son.

"Maman!" he cried in delight, as Christine knelt down to him, arms open. She pulled him to her tightly, squeezing him, planting kisses all over his little face. Giggling with glee, he squirmed in her embrace, stretching tiny fingers up towards her cap. She laughed and reached up to capture his small fist, kissed it, then stood to greet Papi and Norry.

"My dear Jean-Paul, you must not take your Maman's hat," Papi scolded gently. "No one must see her long hair hidden underneath." Smiling, the woman pulled her mistress into a strong embrace, relief written all over her face. "We almost didn't recognize you, Madame. Such a clever costume!" Norry came up behind her, placing a hand on her good shoulder.

"We were sick with worry when we heard what happened yesterday with the brougham. It was all my girl could do to keep me from rushing over to the opera and drag you home. Where is your friend, by the way?" he asked, suddenly remembering the man she had said would be accompanying them. The old man immediately regretted his question as the Comtesse's face fell.

"He will not be joining us," Christine muttered, then forced away the thought. She would not be sad now – they were about to begin a new life somewhere away from the gloomy memories of Paris, and away from the evil that chased them. She had her little boy and these two loyal, caring people. It was all she needed. Smiling up at them, Jean-Paul tucked securely in her arm, she gestured towards the platform. "On to London, then?"


	8. Persia Resurrected

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

For Leroux purists, I apologize for the slight alteration of the Persian's storyline. I dearly wanted to give him a role, but in using the musical's ending instead of the book's, I had to change a few things to incorporate him.

**Side Notes:**  
Readers and reviewers – I have sprinkled clues here and there throughout my story thus far. If you think you have an inkling as to what is going on, please **do not** give anything away in reviews or posts. Don't want to ruin any surprises!

Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they are!_

**Persia Resurrected**

Not an entire day had passed since the Comtesse de Chagny had fled for London when Mme. Giry found her chambers entirely void of guests. For when she rose that morning, she saw that the bed in the sick room had been tidily made up, and all the medicines were missing from the table. Two notes were propped up next to the oil lamp on the nightstand, her name scrawled across the front of one in rather clumsy, shaky handwriting. Observing that it had been written upon her stationary, she tore open the message and read:

_Dear Madame,_

_I am sorry to have troubled you these past several days with my illness, intruding upon your home and person, and thus disrupting your daily activities. Upon returning to my home, I shall continue my convalescence in peace and solitude. I request that you NOT venture into my cellars, as there are many unforeseen dangers of which you are unaware._

_Ma cher madam, I must beg one more favor of you and your service to me shall be complete. If you would, please arrange for the following letter to be hand delivered to the resident at the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries palace, as written. It is urgent._

_Believe me to be, _

_Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, O.G._

"The stubbornness of that man," muttered the woman. "He shall kill himself trying to return to his cellar."

And so it was that Mme. Giry, several days after the departure of the Comtesse de Chagny, found herself miraculously recovered from her deathly bout with pneumonia. She was so much improved, in fact, that the ballet _corps_ was inflicted with an extra two-hour rehearsal session each day to make up for the time lost during the mistress' absence.

During the course of her illness, rumors of the Opera Ghost had flown throughout the _corps_, the chorus, and the stagehands, since there was no Madame there to warn of their impending doom should the Phantom hear their tales. Chilling stories flourished of how his voice had been heard echoing through the hallways upon the Comtesse's return, crying out from the grave in the deepest agony, screaming of the horrors of hell. The ballet rats would shiver in fright as little Jammes spoke in hushed whispers of her trip down the dark hallway past Mme. Giry's rooms one night, and how she had most definitely heard the Comtesse scream, _"My child, my child! Leave my son, you monster!" _

Rumors also abounded about the sudden improvement in the ballet mistress' health; La Carlotta was beside herself, shrieking to anyone who would listen of how she had known all along that Mme. Giry had not been sick, and that the Opera Ghost had returned to torment the prima donna once again. Messieurs Firmin and André had their suspicions as well, but did not dare to bring them up, neither act upon them, for fear of losing the esteemed de Chagny patronage. But as time passed, no more strange cries came floating down the hallways and all continued as before, thus the rampant chatter about the return of the Phantom became a mere trickle of gossip; a missing ballet slipper here, a tilted wall hanging there. Thus, everyday life continued in the aboveground world of the _Opéra Populaire._

* * *

"Erik!...Erik, release me at once!" The bellowing voice echoed through his home, startling the man from his sleep, the throw resting over his shoulders tumbling to the ground. A pain in the sick man's lungs welled up at the sudden movement and another coughing fit seized him, forcing him to his knees. Through glazed eyes, Erik glanced around in confusion to find his bearing. _Ah yes, I have returned home…_

"Open the door, you fool, or I shall die in here!" came the cry again.

"Damn," he muttered, painfully pushing himself up from the ground and stumbling over to the mantel to trigger the mirror. Clutching at his throat, the Persian collapsed into the room, heat pouring in behind him. His jade eyes shot daggers at the man who struggled to rein in his cough.

Taking several shaky breaths, Erik pulled himself up into his chair once more, calmly composing his features.

"Daroga," he said raggedly, "my apologies. I returned to my home in a rather feverish state, and thoughtlessly forgot to disable the chamber before your arrival. There is water available in the decanter over there."

The Persian staggered to the table, poured out a generous glass and tipped it to his parched lips, downing the cool liquid in seconds. He turned back to the table and filled another for himself, and one for Erik. The fire in his throat at last quenched, he stalked over to the pale man seated before him.

"You assured me the first time I found myself in your little play room that you would dismantle the thing!" cried the Persian, his French overly accented in his rage. "I almost died in there, simply because you have this mad fascination with death!"

Erik closed his eyes wearily, resting his head on the stiff back of the chair, remembering the first time Nadir Khan had found his way through the labyrinth, down to his home and straight into the torture chamber. Erik had not even realized that it was the daroga of Mazanderan until the man was half-dead. What a shock it had been to find that his old friend lived in Paris, and had, in fact, been there for some time…

"_If you had found me several weeks earlier, Daroga, you could have attended the first performance of my opera—"_

_The Persian chose his words carefully, testing to see how far his friend had slipped into madness, knowing full well what he was capable of. "Yes, Don Juan Triumphant. I have read its 'reviews' in every newspaper. Erik, you gave me your word that you would stop the killing when you left Persia—"_

"_I do not speak of Persia anymore!" snapped Erik, striding across the room, heedless of the broken objects and torn music littering the floor. "This is my life now – this ruined palace I have so carefully built over the years, destroyed by a foolish band of marauders within minutes." He gestured grandly about the room, flinching almost imperceptibly at the sight of his beloved organ, now smashed to pieces. _

"_They left one room intact – it was never found…Her room…" Erik choked on the words, his wound caused by the loss of his beautiful angel still raw and bleeding. _

"_The singer you took – Miss Daaé? Or I suppose she is now the Comtesse de Chagny…" The Persian's words died away as he saw the dark look that clouded the features of the man before him, something he had never thought to see in his lifetime. _

"_She has married him, then," the man whispered in utter hopelessness. "She was my salvation, you know…that is why I had to let her go." The corners of his mouth turned up grimly in a half-smirk, the expression devoid of the intended sarcasm. "I now know what it is to love. So I shall wait here to die then, with only myself and this useless love for company…"_

_Nadir shook his head in amazement, wishing he could have found his friend several weeks earlier, and perhaps prevented the whole disastrous affair. But then again, any intervention on his part would not have changed a thing. Who was he to stand in the way of plans made by the great magician, lover of trapdoors, personal advisor to the Shah of Persia and favorite of the khanum?_

"_Come, my friend," he said quietly, grasping the man's shoulder. "We shall take tea, and then begin to put your home back together…"_

The torture chamber—Nadir had inquired about it. Erik returned his thoughts to the present, and to the fuming daroga before him. "I restored it after _that boy_ and his servants wandered down here and straight into my house, looking for my body. It was all I could do to clean up the few signs of life and slip into the shadows. He was _this close_, Nadir—so close I could have whipped the lasso around his neck and be done with him forever."

The Persian sighed, reluctantly releasing his anger. "Why did you not do it? You would not have hesitated in Persia; you have killed many people you despised far less."

"Yes, I have," said Erik quietly, loath to delve once again into the past. "But as to why I chose to let the boy live—I think that is a story for another day. We have work to do."

"Work, my friend?" replied Nadir, grunting as if the man had told a great joke. "You are far too ill to accomplish anything. Oh yes, you conveniently did not mention your sickness in your letter. But the woman who sent for me included a note of her own, explaining how you simply left in the night after suffering from a raging fever that almost killed you. She half expected you to be lying dead in your own labyrinth. No, I think that we should wait until you have recovered."

Erik's golden eyes flashed in impatient irritation at his friend's denseness. "Of course I am too damned ill to do anything worthwhile, Daroga. Why do you think I sent for you?" Then seeing the look of resentment that crossed his friend's face, he forced his voice back into a persuasive smoothness. "Nadir, I must admit I need your assistance in this matter; the fact that I am ill has no consequence. You still have your connections in the _Sûreté_, and their network throughout Europe?"

The man nodded in affirmation.

"Good," he continued, his quick mind now racing with his plans. "Then we will need to be in contact with their informants in London – that is where Christine has gone. I want to know if she is easy to locate; if they have no difficulty in finding her, then whoever is after her will have no trouble, either. We will also need to be informed if there is any discussion in the underground about someone searching for a young woman and her child, and perhaps two or three servants, both in London and in Paris. Are you following me thus far?"

The Persian again nodded, wondering suspiciously at the man's carefully laid plans.

Erik paused a moment before continuing, sputtering out a few coughs, his limbs once again trembling from the fatigue he was so desperately trying to push back. Swallowing a bit of water from his glass, he cleared his throat and began again.

"Then, of course, there are the other things that must be watched: bank ledgers, receipts of money transactions, the use of her real name, letters to her _Avocat_—any slip-up could give away her location to them...why do you look at me that way, Nadir?"

The Persian had narrowed his eyes, silently studying the man before him. "What game do you play, Erik?

"Game? Perhaps you could elaborate, my _friend_," hissed the man, growing impatient with his implications.

"The Comtesse handed you everything that you have ever desired! You can still go to London, be her champion, and have her love and gratitude. I don't understand—"

Nadir's words were cut short as another great fit of raking coughs seized Erik. He flew to the man's assistance, locking strong arms underneath his friend's shoulders before he slid from his chair to the ground. Swinging his neck under the man's arm, the daroga dragged his ill friend to the Louis-Philippe room to lie down. He refused to place him in that morbid coffin—not when he had been so close to death only days ago.

Erik leaned heavily against the mahogany armoire as his friend turned back the bedding for him. Pulling open the door, he beheld Christine's lovely dresses again, the ones he had so carefully chosen for her; a few had been worn only once and the rest, not at all. He traced a finger lightly along an elaborately beaded neckline…_everything that I have ever desired…_Erik grimly clasped the soft material in his hand, squeezed it, then let it fall back into the dark closet.

"Of course I want all of that, Nadir," he whispered. "Turning her away when she pleaded for my protection was the most difficult thing I have ever done…"

The Persian assisted his quaking friend to the bed, then returned to the sitting room to gather up the medicine bottles, basin, and other sick items. Taking up the bottles one at a time, he found one labeled "quinine," and poured a bit into the man's half-empty water glass. Filling it again, he then stirred the liquid to effectively dilute the substance. It was not difficult to see that Erik's fever was returning; his limbs were trembling and shaking, and heat radiated from his person.

Erik accepted the glass from his friend, and as he put it to his lips, he made no mention of the bitter taste of the water. Nadir sighed in relief, glad that there would be no confrontation about the sleep agent.

"Don't you see, Daroga?" the man said, returning to the conversation. "Going to London would accomplish nothing. That man—or men, I believe, for there must be more than one—they are here in Paris. Christine is safe in England for now, but soon they will flush her out. Then she will have to flee again, and so goes the vicious cycle until they get what they want, or she is killed. No, my friend; that shall not happen…"

The man paused to harness his seething rage, his eyes shining in their intensity. His voice was barely above a raspy whisper.

"I refuse to wait in London twiddling my thumbs as Christine would have me do, until they knock upon the door. I know how killers stalk their prey, Nadir—I used to be one myself…" Erik slowly raised his eyes to his friend's, a silent understanding passing between the two.

"Persia…" the daroga murmured.

The pale man nodded in affirmation, his mouth set in grave lines. "The only way to put an end to this is to hunt them down and end their miserable lives before they can act. And that is exactly what I intend to do."

Memories of the shah's ruthless political assassin rushed upon both of them, times they had just assume forget: the lasso, scorpions, poisons, midnight meetings, stealthy trips, and finally, a broken Erik weeping at the murderer he had become. And now he proposed to become that person again, all for a young singer who would never know of his sacrifice. The Persian could only shake his head at the injustice of it—on this subject, he would not remain silent.

"My friend, why do you not tell the young lady of your plans? I don't see how all of this secrecy with her is necessary. Yes, you informed me about letting her fight her own battles," Nadir rushed on before the man could open his mouth to protest. "But surely she can accomplish that and still rest with ease, knowing that you are assisting her here in Paris. You give her too little credit, Erik."

Erik paused to carefully weigh his words. His eyes roamed about the room, over her possessions, as if the answer to the Persian's question lay hidden among hairpins and perfumes. He kept his eyes locked on the items as he spoke, not daring to meet his friend's eyes.

"I won't drag Christine back into my dark world, Nadir. She feared it before, and she would again; it is best not to repeat the mistakes of the past." Erik's thoughts turned to the plain gold ring still resting in his pocket, and then to the night she had first accepted it. _Tears streaming down her face, her cries of hate at the torture he was putting her through…_

"And now that she has a child…" he murmured, shaking his head. "It is unthinkable…all the men I murdered in Persia…I was a killer, beyond the pale of humanity. At first, she might appreciate the shelter I bring, but the first time I must tighten the lasso around one of those worthless animals' necks…she is too innocent to understand the necessity of it, Daroga."

The Persian rose from his chair and strode to the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes bore down upon his friend's, trying to make eye contact, but failed. "Forgive me, Erik, but I must ask this. Do you not believe that this is a rather hypocritical theory? You reason that she must be left to fight her battles, and yet you take this decision out of her hands. Perhaps you should have faith that the girl can look beyond your past in Persia. Or has it not yet occurred to you that both you and Christine are the source of the other's redemption?"

Nadir paused to wait for a response from the man, but none came.

"I have a feeling there is more to this, friend," he continued. "I believe you are afraid. But Erik, I warn you, if you let the violent tempests of your past control you, you shall have no hope for the quiet water you so desperately seek."

"One of your proverbs, Nadir?" the man whispered grimly. "I can assure you, I lost all hope for happiness in this lifetime years ago."

The Persian made no reply.

Sighing, Erik turned sad eyes to his friend. "You have things to do, Daroga. Perhaps you should let me be." And with that, the man turned his face to the wall, all discussion at an end.

* * *

The streets were empty, save for the flurry of snow that whipped about in the frigid November air, swirled up from the ground and then scattered across the road like little flecks of glass. A few dried leaves joined in the dance, rustling about in harmony with the moaning wind, their edges glistening from frost. Not even a sliver of the moon graced the sky this evening, leaving Paris blanketed in a velvety blackness. Only the soft glow of the street lamps breached the dense, blustery night, beacons cutting through the darkness to guide weary travelers home. 

The _Opéra Populaire_ loomed like a giant beast over the _Rue Scribe_, sleeping as soundly as the rest of the city. So it was that no one noticed the tall ghost of a man emerge from a carefully hidden side door and vanish just as quickly into the shadows. He slipped along the side of the great stone wall with the stealth and grace of a cat stalking his prey, weaving back and forth between the ornamental pillars and coming to a halt in the shadow of the last. He pulled the collar of his cloak up to block the sting of the wind, once again adjusted his black mask, and waited…

A lone brougham in the distance slowly made its way through the deserted city, rumbling over the cobblestones of the street. The driver perched atop the carriage on a bench, shrouded in blankets to keep out the cold night. He leaned towards the lantern hanging at his side, peering through the darkness, until he spotted the tall man waiting patiently at the pillar.

"Greetings, Monsieur," he called out into the night, the wind all but swallowing the sound of his voice as soon as it left his throat. "It is a bad evening to be about. Where can I take you?"

The man at the pillar paused for a moment, tilted his hat down to further shadow his face, and made his way into the cold fury of the night. He strode into the street like a dark angel raised from hell, his black wings whipping and snapping about his ankles in the wind. The brougham pulled to a stop as the man twisted his cape over his elbow and climbed into the cab, and then it lurched into motion, continuing down the road once he had settled into the bench.

The passenger rapped on the roof to get the driver's attention. "Really, Nadir, you have immersed yourself into your role impressively. As there is no one about on the streets tonight, it was not necessary to call out, you understand."

"One cannot be too careful," the Persian driver grumbled, touching the edge of his whip to the rump of the horse, urging him on into the cold. Erik caught the slight edge in the voice.

"Are you able to stay warm up there, my friend? I could drive the carriage and you could take the cab, if you like."

A distinct "ha!" floated down to the passenger, followed by a low chuckling. "Erik, you have not even ventured out of the opera for four weeks, and you think that you can sit here in the cold wind after a long and dangerous bout with pneumonia? No, I shall continue to drive. It is not that far of a trip to the _Place du Lépine._"

"Let us hope that the esteemed _Avocat_, M. David, makes this venture worth our while," he said quietly.

"What was that?" called the voice through the roof.

Erik cleared his throat and called in his clear, fine voice, "I said, let us hope that M. David is in possession of the notes. I cannot think of anywhere else they could be, unless they were destroyed or she took them with her. Somehow, I do not think it likely that Christine would do that."

The Persian grunted in agreement, and several minutes of anxious silence followed as he thought through the rather alarming information he had received just moments before leaving. Grunting again, he rapped on the roof to get his friend's attention.

"Erik, I have had word from several of my informants this evening," he called out, listening for a response.

"And?…" replied the barely audible voice.

"No one has been asking questions in London, so that is a good thing. However, the word in Paris is that several men have been inquiring into the Comtesse's personal bank accounts, looking for bank note receipts, addresses, anything that could possibly lead them to her. And several people have been frequenting country taverns close to de Chagny estates, wondering about the family's current whereabouts."

A silence descended upon the conversation, and Nadir could only wonder at his passenger's thoughts.

"Anything else?" came the voice at last, the concern in it unmasked.

"No, my friend," replied the Persian. "But I think it is now rather evident that those who are searching for her have an extensive network."

"Yes," murmured the passenger, "I have discovered that, as well. Nadir, someone came into my cellar last night—one of them, most certainly."

The Persian started. "Are you sure?"

"Quite," he responded sardonically. "Found his way in through the _Rue Scribe_ entrance, the same as you did. The man was already witless from fright by the time he entered the torture chamber."

"What information could you get from him?"

"Nothing much; some babble about seeing you exit here several days ago, and that he was to search the cellars to ascertain whether the Comtesse was stowed away under the opera house. I promised him a quick and painless death if he would tell me what he knew, but…"

"Merciful Allah," breathed Nadir. "You left him there in the chamber, then?"

"Of course," Erik replied nonchalantly. "What was I to do? I could not release him—he knew too much."

Nadir sighed in frustration at his friend's lack of pity. So _Persia's lover of trapdoors has returned—the man that Erik had hoped to shut away forever. And yet, this is what must happen, if she is to live, _he thought sadly.

"There is something else, Nadir, which greatly troubles me – something the man cried as he was dying." Erik paused, lost in thought. "What do the words 'now or never' mean to you?

"Nothing," answered the puzzled daroga.

"I have heard it before, my friend," he murmured grimly. "And if it means what I think it does, then I shall be taking a house in London very soon."


	9. M David's Audacity

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, I guess I own M. Henri David, but who wants to own Raoul's foppish friend? Any takers? Thought not…

**Side Notes:**  
Readers and reviewers – This chapter is one of the first big reveals of the story. I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please **do not** give anything away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers!

Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! I saw in an Aria review that someone offered you chocolate and fifty bucks for a few hints. Thanks for not caving :)_

**In Which M. David has the Audacity to Plead his Case, and the Frightful Event that Followed Thereupon**

Monsieur Henri David was a handsome young man with lush brown hair that curled golden about his ears. His mustache was neat and trim, and his frame was lithe and always impeccably dressed. He had a sunny disposition, an excellent demeanor, and was a connoisseur of all the finer things in life; subsequently, he was extremely well-liked by all of Paris, especially the ladies.

The man was also an old friend of Raoul de Chagny's, and was able to boast intimacy with that family. They had grown up in the same circles, played together as boys, and attended the best boarding school. But unlike his friend, M. David had been the youngest of seven older brothers, was given no title, and received only a small portion of the family estate; therefore, he was forced to lower himself to earn a living.

From an early age, young Henri had impressed all those around him with his eloquent grasp of language and vivid descriptions. And while his mother had dearly hoped that he would choose the church as his profession, he had decided to become an _avocat_, as he found that he could just as easily apply his skill with words to the courtroom as to a pulpit. He also greatly preferred the lifestyle of a lawyer to a priest; he was able to retain a rather large bank account and a long list of dazzling Parisian clientele. Because of this, he managed to keep his standing in society, and was invited to all of the best parties.

It was at one such dinner that he was first introduced to the new Comtesse de Chagny, his old chum's bride. She had been seated next to him at the table as his conversation partner for the evening; however, she had proven to be anything but sociable. Try as he might, it was extremely difficult to engage her in any discussion whatsoever. He spoke of the aristocracy, the latest scandals, even the most recent fashion trends, hoping to spark some sort of interest in her pretty blue eyes. And yet the young lady remained aloof, her eyes turned gracefully down, hooded by long dark lashes. She would smile politely at his inquiries and answer his questions in short, clipped sentences, never touching his hand in delight at his stories, or giggling daintily at his witticisms as other women of their circle were prone to do.

This tendency of hers greatly unsettled and even angered him, and he took it as an affront to his person. Who was she, an opera singer, to look down her nose upon him!

But when he was given the chance to observe her at length, the _avocat _saw that his first impressions of the young Comtesse were, indeed, incorrect. As she moved about from party to party, she maintained a sort of shy aloofness with all she spoke to, never truly engaging herself in their gaiety. Her lovely awkwardness tugged at something inside of M. David, and he felt true pity for the girl that had been thrust into an entirely different world.

For all the Comte's gallantry, he seemed to be oblivious to his young wife's predicament. Truly, he believed that the sun rose and set in her, and was so besotted with his Christine that in his eyes, she was the jewel of Paris. Surely everyone else would be just as enamored with her, as well!

So M. David took it upon himself to introduce the Comtesse into their society, since the Comte did not. He whispered words of the girl's loveliness and impeccable taste into the ears of the matrons, and embellishments of her glamorous former life as a diva to the young things of Paris. Thus, the little bride was insured invitations to dine at the most elite of tables and take tea in the best of parlors.

The young lawyer soon grew to personally appreciate the Comtesse's friendship, especially since she had no other true friends, save for a handful of servants. Happy was the day when, at last, her musical laughter floated to his ears after he had made some frivolous joke about the new hard bustle giving women silhouettes like the hind legs of a horse.

When Raoul was not away on business, the three would often ride about the estate in the warm summer evenings, taking picnic dinners with them, or playing a game of cards when the weather did not permit a venture out-of-doors. And for the first time, Henri David found he preferred the intimate company to the lavish parties of Paris.

It was not until after the Comte died that the _avocat _came to realize just how much he valued the widow's companionship. Granted, they did not often visit after her husband's passing, as it was not proper for a woman in full mourning to keep company with a man—Raoul's sister had made that very clear to him on several occasions. But at the few dinners Christine attended, he was always at her side, filling her glass, asking after her warmth, or checking to see if she was tired and needed to be taken home. She would smile up at him in her polite, quiet way, and thank him for his kindness; and, oh, how his heart would flutter at such a small gesture!

More recently, however, he had seen something in her eyes—a sadness or fear, even—that troubled him. While he greatly desired to grow closer and perhaps more dear to the young lady, she seemed to pull away from him, once again isolating herself from society. Ever a patient man, M. David waited in the wings for her grief over the loss of her husband to pass.

And then, the greatest shock of all—her letter requesting his assistance, the meeting with Norry, and the delivery of the notes to his person. His head was still reeling from the events of October and her subsequent departure to London. _At least I am the only person who knows where she is. I can go to her, if need be…_he reasoned.

So lost was he in his thoughts, that as he left his office on that blustery November night, he did not even pause to question why a brougham would be _waiting_ outside his office when no one else was about in the street.

As soon as he boarded the cab, he realized the grave folly he had committed. The driver of the carriage deftly swung down from his perch, bolted the door from the outside, and then leapt back up, spurring the horses on. M. David's eyes flew about in fright, coming to rest on the passenger in the corner, shrouded in the shadows of the night.

The man sat across from him, his back erect against the red cushioned back of the bench, a dignified air about his person. He was well dressed in the finest of black wool, the superior workmanship of the clothing evident in the tailored cut and brocade of his vest. Everything about this man bespoke wealth, intelligence, taste…and the mask! Surely there was no need for a mask, if he were an 'unknown'. M. David slowly began to wonder if he could possibly be an acquaintance—one of Paris' more elite set—and thus the need for disguise.

"M-Monsieur," the anxious _avocat _stuttered, "Do I have the pleasure of knowing you? I am a little puzzled as to the purpose of this meeting…"

The man in the corner forced a smile, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness. "Do not be alarmed, M. David –ah yes, I know your name. I am here on behalf of Madame the Comtesse de Chagny. We have some business to discuss regarding her welfare—that is the purpose of this meeting."

It was then that the young lawyer became aware of the circle of rope the man was toying with in his hands, the rough fibers weaving restlessly between his fingers. _Mon Dieu…_ in despair, the man suddenly realized what the object was…_ a noose!_ _This man shall murder me—that is why he wears a mask…_

Trembling in fear, the _avocat_ sank back further into the red cushion of the cab…_blood red…_ "Please, I beg of you!" cried the shaking man, springing up again. "Do not harm me! I know it was you that apprehended the Comtesse in the brougham last month, but I don't know where she is, I swear to you!"

"No more, Monsieur!" hissed Erik, irritated by the man's pathetic blubbering. "As I have just told you, I seek to help Christine, not harm her. But believe me, if I do not have your cooperation, you shall be the worse for it." To emphasize his point, he slowly lifted the lasso, pulling it taut about his wrist. Loosening it again, he watched the young man's eyes widen in fear as he repeated the gesture to drive his threat home.

M. David was now trembling so horribly, he no longer tried to hide the terror exuding from every pore of his body. Erik waited patiently for the man to regain control of his person before he continued.

"I believe you are in possession of some notes that I would like to examine. Christine has told me of the threats to her life. Am I correct in the assumption that you have them?" The _avocat _said nothing at first, not daring to open his mouth for fear of betraying his dear friend. Finally, swallowing back the lump in his throat, he pressed his luck.

"Monsieur, I do not know you, nor understand how you claim to know the Comtesse. I have never seen you in our circles, and I can assure you that I have been by her side at every social occasion. Not once has she ever spoken of you to me. I would have remembered if she had…"

"You mean my mask, I suppose," the shadowed man spat, jealousy and anger at the man's implications suddenly welling up inside of him. "Yes, she would not have mentioned me. The Comte and I were not…the best of friends," he smiled sardonically, his golden eyes piercing through the darkness. "So tell me, M. David, just how good of a friend have you been to Madame de Chagny?"

"Enough!" came the Persian's cry through the rooftop, startling both of the passengers. "Erik, really, I do not believe that threatening the man's life shall achieve the desired outcome. We want to work with him, not kill him. What good is he to us dead?"

"Very well, Daroga, your point is taken," Erik sighed and turned back to the cowering man across from him. He slowly rolled up the lasso, tucked it under his cloak, and tugged at his gloves. The corners of his sensitive mouth turned up in a smirk. "Well Monsieur, my friend seems to think that I should not strangle you, as you would not be able to tell us what we need to know." He saw the young man exhale in relief. "Perhaps a few broken fingers would do the trick?"

"Erik! Do not torture the boy so," cried the Persian once again, the anger now evident in his voice. The passengers felt the cab slow to a crawl as the driver pulled into a dark side street, halted the horses, and climbed down from his perch. Unbolting the side door, he climbed in next to M. David, seated himself, and looked pointedly at his friend.

"He risks his life for the girl, just as you do. You must earn his trust; perhaps if you told him what you already know regarding Madame de Chagny, he might be more willing to assist us. Somehow I do not think breaking his hand will accomplish anything."

The quaking young lawyer turned grateful eyes upon his rescuer, wagging his head in agreement, silently saying prayers of thanks to the Persian.

Erik sighed, raising elegant fingers to press against his temple, closing his eyes in vexation.

"As you wish, Nadir, although I still believe my way to be a much more efficient method for extracting information…" He looked to the Persian, who still held him under a steely gaze. Erik turned back to the shrinking man in the corner and smirked again, holding out his palm in truce. "M. David, my sincerest apologies. Where shall I begin then?"

The _avocat_ sat a little straighter, forcing the fear in his voice back into his throat. "Tell me how you know Christine," he managed to choke out in a rather squeaky voice.

The masked man acquiesced, and cleared his throat. "I suppose you could call me a friend from her days at the opera. I assume she has not spoken of that time period to you?" The young man shook his head in response. "Raoul de Chagny and I…disagreed on several issues, and thus I fell from their favor," he said, choosing to gloss over the sordid events of the past. "Last month, she came to me at the opera for assistance. I was present when she received your letter, directed to Mme. Giry. Now, what other questions can I answer for you, Monsieur?"

The lawyer had managed to still his shaking hands, as he became a bit more at ease with the situation. "Tell me what you know of the man that is after her," he requested after finally finding his voice.

Erik paused in thought, deciding how much he should tell the man. After all, if _they_ chose to come after the lawyer, it would not take much for them to withdraw the desired information. "First of all," he began, "I should tell you that it is not only the man from the brougham attack that follows her. There are too many in Paris searching for her whereabouts to assume that one man is behind the threats. They seem to be well organized in the city, but outside of Paris, I cannot say. Thus far, they have not traced her to London."

He saw the surprise that swept over the young man's face, then a sense of fear at his failure to keep the Comtesse's location secret.

"Do not worry, M. David, she informed me of that herself—you have betrayed nothing," Erik succinctly replied, bitterly noting that the young lawyer indeed was motivated to help Christine by something more than friendship.

"Do you know who _they _are?" whispered the astonished man.

"No, Monsieur, and according to my friend," he inclined his head to the daroga, "the _Sûreté_ does not, either. I do have my suspicions, however, and if you are in possession of the notes, then we may be able to determine the answer to your question."

The young _avocat_ studied his hands for a while, his face downcast. He didn't desire to make this decision, with so much at stake._ What if this man proves to be false? To do as he asks may simply mean that I hand Christine and Jean-Paul over to him…and yet, what choice do I have? He already knows they are in London…_

Taking a deep breath, the man dove in. "She left the notes with me, yes. If you would like to read through them, they are tucked away safely in my home. I rather think my office is not the best place for them—too many prying eyes."

Erik nodded, appreciating the man's foresight. "Very well, then. Nadir?" The Persian leapt from the cab and, following M. David's quiet directions, once again drove through the dark snow-covered streets of Paris to the lawyer's lavish, tree-lined neighborhood. Silence ruled the cab for the duration of the trip; the young man gazed out the window, his eyes carefully following the familiar route to his residence, while his companion's eyes slit in concentration as he intently studying the man.

As the brougham pulled into the drive, M. David leapt down, directing several waiting stablehands to tend to the carriage. The door of the _avocat_'s home flew open and a round, rosy woman stood silhouetted in the light pouring from the open doorway. She cried out as the men alighted from the carriage.

"Oh Monsieur, you did not tell me that you were to have guests tonight – I have nothing prepared!" The man walked up the stairs to his housekeeper and patted her cheek.

"Marie, _ma chère_, I apologize for the lack of forewarning; please do not trouble yourself at all."

M. David strode into the ornately furnished foyer, stepping aside to allow the two gentlemen into his home. The nervous maid started when she saw that one of the men was masked, but made no mention of it as her employer shuffled them to his library, away from sight. She did not even have a chance to ask for their cloaks, so quick was he to remove his guests from her curious eyes.

Turning back to her, the young man whispered carefully, "Marie, I think it best that you retire for the evening. I shall be up rather late with the gentlemen, so any further service this evening will not be necessary." He smiled warmly at the woman, lightly brushed her arm, and sent her on her way. The maid cast one last concerned look over her shoulder as she made her way up the stairs to her rooms.

Erik glanced about the home, taking in the dark, rich surroundings. The library was a comfortable, stylish affair – more for entertaining that actual reading, he supposed.

While hundreds of books lined his shelves, most had not even been opened once. It was not that M. David was a dim-witted man—far from it. But between the demands of his clientele and the endless social events dotting his calendar, reading for pleasure simply did not fit into his busy lifestyle.

A set of French doors opened onto an adjoining parlor, and a large, lovely piano could just be seen gracing the center of that room. _Perhaps Christine has stood next to that piano, singing for M. David's guests…_With a sigh, Erik realized how little he really knew of her life these past four years. While he had had plenty of thoughts about the girl and her fool of a husband enjoying each other's company, it had never crossed his mind that she would have other friends, as well…gentlemen friends.

The lawyer, ever the good host, offered cigars and brandy to his guests, but they shook their heads in refusal. Anxious to move on to the task ahead, the masked man strode over to the mantle where the _avocat_ stood.

"M. David, the notes, _s'il vous plait_." The lawyer nodded in response and stiffly left the room. Several moments passed, and the man had not returned; Erik ran a hand along the mantle, paced back and forth across the expensive Oriental rug, and finally came to face the Persian.

"What do you think is keeping—" the man began impatiently, but halted in mid-sentence as the daroga's face before him turned several shades paler. A clicking noise caught Erik's attention, and he swung around to see what his friend saw. There stood M. David in the doorway, a cocked pistol in his shaking hand, slowly advancing towards his guests. His lawyer's eyes were bright with intensity, his mouth set in grim determination. He swung the weapon from one man to the next, warily observing every flinch.

"Monsieur," whispered the Persian calmly, "what is the meaning of this?" The _avocat_ turned at the daroga's words.

"I don't know who you are or what you truly want, but I shall not allow you anywhere close to Christine," he whispered, his eyes darting wildly about in his edginess.

This gave Erik all the incentive he needed to pull his lasso from under his cloak and bring the lawyer to heel. He hesitated briefly, conflict welling up, then in one deft movement he whipped the noose about the young man's wrist, pulling back swiftly to tighten the rope. He swung his powerful shoulder back, literally jerking his captive off of his feet and sent him sprawling to the ground, knocking the wind clean from his lungs. He dove to the man's side and grasped at his throat, efficiently pinning him to the ground, causing the lawyer to clasp at anything he could, his hands flailing about.

The pistol clattered across the floor to Nadir's feet and he stooped to retrieve it, training it on the fighting men. "Both of you now, this is absurd. Why struggle with each other when we have the same interest in sight?"

The _avocat _struggled a bit, then stilled, wheezing out in pain from the grip on his windpipe. "Please, Monsieur, I am a friend of the Comtesse," the man sputtered. "If you kill me, she will never forgive you."

Erik pulled back a bit in bewilderment, then growled as he released his hold on the lawyer's neck and rocked back on his ankles. He jumped to his feet and vehemently extended a hand to help the winded man up.

"_Mon Dieu_, what reflexes you have!" the lawyer gasped. "Quite a show, Monsieur."

"What ever possessed you to try such a stunt as that?" Erik raged. "The _idea_ that I would ever harm her… Damned foolish boy, I could have just as easily snapped your neck!" He reached over to the man's wrist and roughly removed the rope circling it, eyes taking in the burns swelling to a bright red with satisfaction.

M. David gently felt his wrist and determined that the pain was not caused by a broken bone, but only a slight sprain. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced over to the wary Persian.

"You may lower that Monsieur, I promise not to attack. I could not discern for certain if you were trustworthy. How was I to know that you wouldn't kill me the moment the notes were in your hand? One can never be too careful. However, I was not quite expecting that magnificent throw to the ground. Really, where did you learn to do that, Monsieur?" He turned to the masked man brooding in the shadows, all incredulity draining from his face as he shrunk under his threatening glare.

"Next time, Monsieur, I will kill you" the shrouded man hissed, arms folding dangerously across his chest. "You can be certain of that without testing the waters. _Maintenant_, the notes."

M. David walked swiftly into the adjacent study, calling into the library as he left.

"You must understand my suspicions, Messieurs. These past few days have been rather trying—someone has broken into my office several times now, looking for something—I assume the Comtesse's location."

He returned with a bundle of white letters, tied with a thin piece of twine. Sliding the binding away, he spread twenty or so messages across his desk for the men's perusal. As they unfolded and read through the menacing words scrawled in black ink across each sheet, their faces grew dark and severe. Phrases leapt out here and there, all with common messages:

_ …must return it as soon as possible…_

_…someone shall die, Madame, if you are not careful…_

…_be assured that we will do as promised…_

…_silence is key…_

…_shall join your husband tonight. Now or Never…_

_ …are encouraged not to socialize more than necessary…_

_…remember what happens when tongues wag…_

"I have not been able to make any sense of them," said M. David, frustrated. "Each letter contains similar veiled threats, but some are nothing more than warnings about holding your tongue, and others are outright death threats. They seem to want something from her, or for her to remain silent about some issue, but I haven't the slightest clue…"

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched smugly, knowing that Christine had chosen to confide in him, rather than in the dandy of a lawyer.

"After she was attacked," he explained, "Madame de Chagny imparted that the man in fact _did_ want something from her, but she was uncertain as to what. I assume whatever it was he sought is what is referred to in these letters."

As he read through them more thoroughly, however, the satisfaction from the small victory over the _avocat _rapidly faded. The writing on each note confirmed his suspicions of the previous night, because the words cried by the dying man were, in effect, written on each note in some form or another, as plain as day.

…_NorN_

…_N N_

…_nOn_

…_now or never…_

_Mon Dieu_, how he wished it weren't so. Turning away from the notes, Erik walked over to the dull fire, glaring into the orange glow. He bent closer to the heat of the flames as all energy left his body, leaving him cold and spent. Once again, the weariness of the past month's illness entered his bones.

_The man in the brougham was correct…_he thought bitterly. _She and her boy won't survive this, not without assistance in London. In fact, she should not even stay there. Somewhere far away…_

He jammed his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around the gold band still resting there, now carried on his person every day. He leaned his head heavily against the fist braced on the mantle, his knuckles turning white from the weight. Behind him, he could hear the men still piecing together the notes, trying to find some sort of order to them.

"…see, they are numbered. So if you place them in sequence…"

"Yes, but that makes no sense when they are ordered like so. Why would the delivered messages become less threatening if they were written in this order…"

"…if you flip them around, though…perhaps the numbers are some sort of countdown, 20 to one?"

"There is no number one…only a couple of twos…"

"But as the numbers decrease, the threats become more prominent. And then this one—it says that she would join her husband—this is the other 'number two'. It must be the last…what do you think 'Now or Never' means?"

The Persian turned to his friend, and only then saw that he was not observing their progress over their shoulders, but was lost in thought across the room, his eyes closed in what could only be construed as anguish.

"The _Narodnaya Volya_, Daroga," Erik murmured, his eyes still closed. "Or perhaps you have heard them called the _People's Will_? 'Now or Never' is a favorite slogan of theirs."

The two at the desk started, incredulous at the man's conclusion. "The group that assassinated the Russian tsar three years ago?" the young lawyer croaked in disbelief. "Monsieur, are you certain—"

"Of course it is them! Despite my reclusive tendencies, M. David, I do still follow the events of other countries," Erik spat in exasperation. "I just choose to avoid the Paris gossip columns. Christine's description of her attacker, the network in Paris looking for her, the man who came into my home…and now the notes…it all points to the _Narodnaya Volya_. They are well-known for this kind of work, am I correct, Daroga?"

Nadir looked dismally at his friend, nodding in confirmation. "Their methods of terror do seem to reflect the ones used here, yes."

"You are familiar with the events that have occurred in Russia over the past several months, Monsieur?" said Erik, slowly striding over to the desk to study the notes once more. He softly ran his long, thin fingers delicately over the words, as if persuading them to divulge their secrets.

The young man flushed red, his hand once again toying with the burn at his wrist. "My w-work tends more towards the civil disputes of the aristocracy, Monsieur," the man stuttered nervously. He vaguely remembered Russian names and cities popping up here and there in conversations, but remembered no details of the occurrences. Politics held no interest for him, so when the discussion turned towards certain topics, his eyes would take on a glazed expression, and he would instead think on much more agreeable subjects.

"Yes," the Persian picked up, saving the man from further embarrassment. "The last of the trials ended not even two months ago. Just before—"

Both men stiffened in realization, bending to examine the notes again. Studying the numbers and words, they shuffled them around, pointing out certain phrases. "Of course..." Nadir mumbled, seeing the numbers in a new light. M. David, the meaning completely lost to him, peered over their hunched shoulders.

"Messieurs, please continue. Just before what?" the poor _avocat_ cried, now wishing he had paid closer attention to the political conversations of his gentlemen friends when they puffed cigars and sipped brandy at his dinner parties.

"Nadir, I believe you were correct in your earlier assumption," Erik continued, failing to hear the lawyer's plea. "The notes are a countdown of sorts. And if Christine received the last one—the second note numbered 'two'—right before she came to me, then that means the event of the countdown had already occurred."

"_The Trial of the Fourteen_ took place in early October…" the Persian murmured. "The notes…perhaps they were warnings for her to keep something to herself at least until the trial was over, and then probably indefinitely? Some type of information that troubled them so much, they would kill to make sure it never came out."

The _avocat_ stuttered again, reeling from the discovery he had so carelessly overlooked. "I don't understand, Messieurs? How could Christine possibly be caught up in such events?"

"Perhaps the correct question to ask, Monsieur," replied the masked man, "is why the Comte de Chagny was involved with the organization to begin with." Erik's face darkened, his fury at the carelessness of Christine's husband suddenly swimming to the surface.

_The boy, that stupid boy never told her…After I had left her to his care…He had to have known they would come after her when he was gone_. With a great snarl, he swept his arm across the desk, scattering the notes about the floor.

"Her husband, in his foolish bravery, was so protective of his little wife that when he died, he took the answers with him to his grave! So instead of defending her, he passed on all of this terror, without even leaving her a means to fight back. Damn the man to hell—"

"Erik!" the Persian cried, interrupting the man's tirade. "He did give her a way to fight her battle."

The daroga bent to pick up several of the scattered papers, allowing for a few moments to pass and his friend's temper to cool. Seeing that he held the rapt attention of the startled lawyer, he quickly shuffled over to the young man, took him by the arm, and gently pulled him to the adjoining parlor.

"Forgive me, sir, but I wish to speak with my friend in private." And with a quick nod, he closed the ornate French doors to the open-mouthed gape of the _avocat_. Turning back to Erik, he found him tolerantly waiting for his next words.

The Persian exhaled, his voice calm as he spoke. "The Comte, in his fear, may not have bequeathed Christine with the knowledge he possessed about these men, but he certainly provided a way to fight back. Raoul left her to your care, my friend." Nadir placed a hand solidly on the man's shoulder, trying to quiet the rage still burning in the gold eyes.

"He left her to you."

The words rang in the air, the strain so thick that a single spark would engulf the room in flames. So many pieces of the great puzzle had fallen into place simultaneously; it was all Erik could do to digest what had been revealed by the simple white pieces of paper.

His mind reeled in these new revelations. _Raoul de Chagny,my bitter rival, trusted me—a monster—to protect his precious wife and child. That in death, the boy was not losing the prize he had fought for and won, but willingly leaving her to his enemy's care? _

_But if we fight for the same cause, does that mean he is no longer my rival?_

It was just too hard to grasp; so many of his preconceived notions were laid bare by this novel thought.

_Why would he send Christine to me for help, knowing what I am capable of?_ _The boy had to understand that by doing so, he was condemning her to the darkness once more… _

…_And yet, she is already engulfed in darkness. Her future shall be years of hiding; running from her pursuers, drifting from place to place until they end their hunt, or she is dead. No way to turn away from fate, to return to the light._

_And so she shall slowly drown in the black waters until someone shows her how to fight her way back to the surface…_

_Or teaches her to swim…_

"Dear God, why must I be the one to do it?" he cried, covering his face as understanding washed over him.

"Because you have been there, Erik," the Persian whispered zealously. "You know what it is to stand at the gates of Hell and struggle in the devil's grasp. And now she stands there as well, unaware that the fire is even licking at her heels. Show her the path out of Hades, my friend. Be the one to lead her back to world of the living. And if that is not possible, show her how to thrive in the darkness."

And with those words, the pedestal the Angel had so painstakingly built to raise his beloved up to heaven, high above his black abyss, crumbled to the ground, crushing his soul under its ruins.

Erik nodded in acceptance, raising his grief-stricken face to meet his friend's. "I don't know how to begin," he murmured, his voice breaking with the fervor of his emotions.

The daroga's gaze bore down on the man, this time meeting his eyes. "You already have, _du stæm_."

**Note:**

Well, join me in wishing Erik bon voyage! If you would rather not have to dig out your European history book, wait for the next chapter, and Prof. Gondolier will give you a brief lesson weaved into a lovely story.


	10. An Angel's Sanctus

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Not even the plush horse…(read on!)

**Side Notes:**  
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please **do not** give anything away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! I saw in an Aria review that someone offered you chocolate and fifty bucks for a few hints. Thanks for not caving :)_

**An Angel's Sanctus**

Erik had sat on the cold, hard bench just shy of an hour, silently observing the ebb and flow of Londoners meandering about St. James Park. The bench was next to a small stone bandstand, now filled with the dried leaves and bramble of winter, positioned in such a way that it afforded him a clear view of the path to the Birdcage Walk. Though the sun was uncharacteristically bright for the briskness of late November, he still pulled up the collar of his new fawn-colored coat, as if to block the breeze, and tilted the brim of his dark felt hat to shadow his face. The reclusive man uttered a quick "_merde!_" as he longed for the concealing comfort of his great black cape and fedora. But to have retained them in the midst of London fashion would have immediately labeled him as an outsider, and most definitely would have called unwanted attention in his direction. He already had more than his share of that, thanks to his mask.

_Nadir was correct,_ the man thought. _It is much more difficult to return to the world of the living than I had anticipated. _

Even though he had often been forced into the daylight hours of Paris to "shop" for the necessities of life, he had always dealt with the same small handful of secluded vendors and tailors. Now in London, he found that there was no way to shield himself from gawking shopkeepers and pedestrians, the humiliating stares of children and their mothers, who were quick to avert their faces and whisper "its impolite to stare, dear," to their wide-eyed sons and daughters. Men would glide past him on the sidewalk, glance briefly at his masked face, and then concentrate on some interesting point just beyond his head.

Even his meeting with the London solicitor had been an extremely uncomfortable situation. As soon as the little pig of a man saw that his new client had no title, he abruptly became dismissive and arrogant. Only after Erik used his superb skills of persuasion (first with money, then with the rope) did the sweaty bald man crack a nervous smile, and fawn over the 'most excellent gentleman' in the manner of a pathetic lackey. Their painful beginnings put aside, the masked man found that he was able to acquire a town home in a secluded upper-middle class neighborhood not far from Kensington—much to his liking—in no time at all.

So whether he liked it or not, necessity called for interaction with the human race for whatever length of time was required, if he was to set himself up as a Londoner.

His first task had been to meet with two of Nadir's informants—Mr. Murry and Mr. Hale (or so they called themselves)—at the docks upon his arrival three days ago, to ascertain whether anything of consequence had developed. The _Sûreté _members were quick to inform him that the _Narodnaya Volya_ had not yet reached London, which lifted an enormous weight from his mind. It was amazing that the _People's Will_ was not kicking down the door of the Comtesse's home after a rather large blunder the young _avocat_ had committed. If Erik and Nadir had not taken the proper measures to cover the man's tracks, the situation could have been all the graver for it.

_Simply amazing_, he contemplated. _And then that foolish avocat practically gave this deadly group everything they needed to find Christine!_ He ground his teeth in anger and frustration, once again ruminating over the frantic preparations that had taken place before he could travel to London.

The lawyer, in his eagerness to care for Madame de Chagny, had transferred a large sum of money in the form of bank notes from the Comtesse's personal bank account to a new account, established for her in London. As most of the paperwork had been sent to M. David's solicitor friend in England the previous day, nothing could be done to retrieve the letters. In fact, the only reason Erik and Nadir found out about the transaction at all, was because the young lawyer had asked the masked man to convey a personal message to the Comtesse, informing her that the bank notes were hers to acquire anytime she wished.

Covering the mistake had required a bit of artful stealth in the field of safe-cracking, something Erik was only slightly familiar with from his former life. So after their somewhat productive visit with M. David, the Persian and the master thief spent the remainder of the time before dawn breaking into the vault of the _Banque Nationale de Paris._

After rendering two guards unconscious, then spending several tiring hours working at the vault door in slow concentration, fighting to steady their nerves, they obtained the personal account ledger of Madame le Comtesse de Chagny. And, as suspected, the large transfer to the _London Middlesex Bank_ stood out like a sore thumb among the records, as there had been no other account activity written in the ledger for several weeks. Erik prayed that no other eyes had seen the ledger, or the paperwork sent to M. David's London solicitor.

_Only time will tell,_ Erik sighed.

For good measure, several lovely jeweled necklaces belonging to one Señora Carlotta Guidacelli, also placed in the large vault, were procured to cover the true theft. Alas, amidst the frenzy stirred at the opera house the following morning by the already widely publicized robbery, Erik was forced by Nadir to relinquish the dazzling pieces. He secretly placed them in the managers' office via the trapdoor in the floor of the room, positioning the diamonds' green velvet box upon the managers' great mahogany desk. Resting atop the box was the following note, scrawled in red ink:

_Dear Messieurs Firmin and André,_

_It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the extended leave I shall be taking from my official position as _Opera Ghost_. Several unfortunate events call for my services elsewhere, and thus necessitate that I relinquish my presence at the Opéra Populaire for the time being. In my absence, I must ask that you refrain from venturing too far into the cellars, as any dangers that reside there will continue to function after my departure. _

_Messieurs, be warned, however, that I shall return, and most probably when you do not expect it. And as I would be **dreadfully unhappy** to find that certain details had been neglected in my absence, please continue to follow the guidelines I have set for the smooth operation of my theatre._

_Again, please accept my sincerest apologies for this inconvenience, along with this exquisite gift as a token of my affection. I remain_

_Your most humble and obedient servant,_

O.G.

P.T.O.

Give my regards to La Carlotta, and convey my adamant wish for her recovery from the sad malady that seems to continually plague her – her miserable excuse for a voice.

And so, with extremely little sleep and quite a bit of exertion, Erik and Nadir set about sealing the secret doors into the labyrinth with a cement mixture to prevent as few dalliances into the passages as possible. Once the long and grueling task was completed, the exhausted men fought away the sleep that threatened to engulf them, and ironed out any remaining details. Well into the afternoon, they made plans for correspondence, travel aliases, and meetings with the London informants.

At last, after packing a small valise of items that included a fortune in bank notes, several changes of clothing, a spare mask, Christine de Chagny's bank ledger, the beloved _Don Juan Triumphant_, and a few select lassos and daggers, the men slowly made their way up through the black passages one final time. At last, they emerged into the hazy above-ground world of Paris. The Phantom of the Opera closed the heavy door to the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house, then locked and chained it, tucking away his home from the world.

As the shadowed indigo of evening bled into the late afternoon light, the two friends said their brief goodbyes outside the _Gare Saint-Lazare _railway station. One man was to depart for London; the other, to remain in Paris for the time being, gleaning what information he could from the _Sûreté_.

"_As-Salaam Alaikum_, my brother," uttered the Persian, grasping his friend's hand. "May Allah be merciful."

"_Wa Alaikum_ _Salaam, _Daroga," the masked man replied, taken aback by the force of his friend's words.

Brother… _Frère…_

No one had _ever_ called him by that name before. He let it roll from the tip of his tongue, deciding that he was rather partial to the sound of it.

* * *

Once again, Erik peered down the path to the Birdcage Walk of St. James Park, watching for any signs of an elegant young woman dressed from head to toe in mourning black. 

_It should not be long, now…_he reasoned, yet again pulling out his gold pocketwatch to check the time—a quarter after two. Evensong began at three.

The one task he had not yet accomplished—that he had, in fact, put off as long as possible—was to actually meet with Madame de Chagny and inform her of his presence in the city. He had attempted to see her right away upon his arrival to London, but when the man was within yards of her posh home just blocks from Royal Albert Hall, he had halted the cab, leapt to the walkway and strode straight past the Comtesse's residence.

Never one to rush into a situation, Erik carefully weighed the potential for disaster if he were to simply walk up the steps to her home and rap on the door.

_If they are watching, there could be no doubt that they would never forget a masked man, and in the future, when they looked for her, would watch for me as well._

No, rushing upon her household like a madman was not the way to do things; he needed time to think through his course of action. And as he had information from Mr. Murry and Mr. Hale that there was still no word of anyone searching for the missing Comtesse and her little son, Erik granted himself the small luxury of setting up a bit more fool-proof plan to speak with Christine.

However, the knowledge from the docks this morning sent him reeling at his cowardice and neglect, scoffing at his incessant penchant for elaborate planning. According to the informants, two men, dressed in the bowler hats and waistcoats of the London lower middle class, had arrived at the shipyard the night before, and had immediately inhabited the pubs. They casually remarked after the recent influx of Parisians to the city, and then asked whether any of the French aristocracy were settled in London. Of course, the patrons of the taverns would have shrugged off the comments as simply an odd vein of discussion over pints, had it not been for the fact that they had been forewarned (and well-paid) to listen for such conversations. In addition, the men's strange lack of accent was sure to set off alarm bells in any cockney sailor worth his salt; wariness of strangers was a part of everyday life in the grimy, foggy, cobblestone streets along the Thames.

So immediately after receiving the message, Erik had fairly flown from his home, grabbed up his coat and hat on his way through the foyer, and sprinted down the lane until he reached the more highly trafficked Barons Court Road. As he flung his hand into the air to hail a Hansom cab, all thoughts of his masked face and passerby's gapes fled from his mind. Every cell in his body was pulled toward the center of his chest, constricting, knotting tightly with fear.

And then he halted his mad rush in frustration, once again two blocks from her home. _If the men from the docks had found this place,_ and _were watching…_

But he did not have long to ponder over the decision this time, because the very object he sought swept through the front door; the youthful widow, elegant in her tailored black merino dress and cloak, her lovely face framed by a short crape veil attached to a trimmed hat that shadowed her fair brow. She was followed by a rosy young woman of no more than thirty, who was also in black, but more simply and practically dressed than her companion.

_That must be her lady's maid, the one who lost a child…_Erik realized.

He started as the maid reached back and grasped a small boy's hand, struggling to get him through the doorway. The poor woman endeavored to rebutton the child's coat, but he stubbornly resisted her ministrations, twisting and turning from her fingers. Then Christine knelt down to face the lad, straightened his little coat and hat, and took his other hand to help him down the stairs.

"Please Jean-Paul, _ma petit_, do not fight so," she lightly scolded, tugging at the scowling boy's arm. The child let out an angry whimper and jerked his arm back from her grasp. Sighing, the weary mother understood that no amount of cajoling would sway the boy's mind, so she lifted him into her arms, carrying him down the front path. But as she took her little son into her embrace, he fought even harder against her until she relented in exasperation, once again setting him down upon the ground. It seemed to Erik that the child preferred to walk alone, with no assistance whatsoever.

_Christine's child…so Jean-Paul is his name…_he mused. It was odd, how the name pleasantly surprised him. He had assumed that the little Comte de Chagny would have a much more aristocratic name, such as Louis, Georges, Philippe….or Raoul. It was comforting, however, to observe that the boy was his own little person. Oh, Erik could see that the child had the look of his beloved Christine about him—the soft dark curls and slight frame, even for a two year old. But the stubborn streak in the child seemed to be unique to Jean-Paul, for both of his parents were devoid of such a characteristic.

As the small party made their way down the path to the waiting carriage, Erik swiftly ducked around the corner of a neighboring house to avoid being seen. He waited as the three strode past him, then he picked up pace behind them, just close enough to hear a few phrases float back to him…

"…must stop at the millinery's before we go to Westminster for Evensong."

"Perhaps we can walk through the park from the millinery's to the abbey…"

The voices faded again, but that bit of information was all he needed.

* * *

Christine and Papi sauntered along the promenade, each carrying a hatbox, their cloaks tucked tightly about them to block out the brisk air. Jean-Paul was toddling along the path ahead of them. The boy darted back and forth through the trees, sometimes veering away to examine a rock, or other pedestrians, his curious mind continually churning. 

"_Maman!_" he cried as he bent to reach little fingers after a pigeon or squirrel, the frightened animals scampering away in fright before they could fall prey to the boy's grasp.

The young mother laughed in delight at her beautiful son's antics, and knelt next to him, her arm coming around his middle in an affectionate squeeze. She took up his tiny hand in hers, and with her index finger, pointed his smaller one along the path the squirrel had taken up the tree, until both mother and son saw the furry creature chatter at them from his perch in the branches.

"_Squirrel_, Jean-Paul. Can you say that for your _Maman_?" Christine brushed her fingers lightly over the boy's forehead under his hat, pushed back the wispy curls, and planted a little kiss on his cheek.

Jean-Paul squirmed from her embrace and ran towards the tree, squealing with glee as the squirrel leapt from branch to branch, eventually ducking inside his home. He then looked back to the smiling woman behind him, as if daring her to follow. Christine straightened her legs, handed her box to Papi, and chased after her little son as he darted through the trees, his shrieks of laughter trailing along behind him.

Suddenly he halted, the laughter dying away as something caught his attention behind a large empty bandstand just off the path. He scampered around it, and then called back to his _Maman_ with pride at his discovery.

"Man!" he cried, his little finger pointing behind the structure, just as he had pointed to the squirrel.

Christine's face flushed red in embarrassment as she jogged over to her little son. "You should not bother the gentleman, my dear," she scolded, lightly grasping the boy's hand.

"Sir, I apologize," she began in halted English, but the words died away as she circled the stones, and found only empty benches. She frowned in puzzlement, turning to her little son.

"Jean-Paul, are you sure there was someone here?" The boy nodded innocently up at his _Maman, _his solemn eyes all seriousness. The red flush of her cheeks quickly drained away as her face went ashen at the possibilities.

_Where could the man have gone to so quickly? Is someone following us?…Are **they** following us?_ The young mother scooped up her boy and dashed back to the path in panic, as the questions flooded her mind. Her eyes darted about nervously, searching for any person walking away from the bandstand, or perhaps along the path ahead, but not another soul was around, save for an older gentleman and lady several yards behind Papi.

_I am going mad…there was no one there, of course. **They** are not there._

Since she had fled from Paris five weeks ago, she had heard not a single word from _them_, nor received their ominous notes or frightful visits. The first week in London, she had held her breath every time she walked through the front door, anticipating another horrible message. But none came. And when she hailed a hansom, she would nervously glance over her shoulder, expecting to see a shrouded man with a twisted sneer behind her. Yet time and again, there was no one there. So she eventually began to laugh away her foolishness, becoming comfortable in their safe new home and routine. However, when something out of the ordinary happened, even if it was as trivial as a mysteriously vanished man, it unsettled her a bit.

And so she darted back to Papi, saying shakily, "perhaps we should move on, or we shall be late for Evensong." Papi nodded, concerned by the paleness of her mistress' face, and the fear shining in her eyes.

The two women swiftly made their way across the footbridge, and along the Birdcage Walk. Once they reached the gate of the park, they continued on to Great George's Street, skirting through the pedestrians about the highly trafficked area. The strolled down the street for several blocks, past the Royal Aquarium, and onto the great yard of Westminster. The ancient bells of the Abbey had begun to peal, calling the faithful to the great place of worship, the house of kings.

Christine paused in the yard before the door, struggling to keep her arms around a squirming Jean-Paul, who had become extremely indignant at the park excursion being cut short. She halted, abruptly turning her son in her embrace so she could see his face.

"Jean-Paul, I am at my wits' end—enough of this behavior. We can visit Hyde Park tomorrow for a long time, if it is not too cold. But now it is time to go to worship, _ma petit_."

Unfortunately, her promise had the opposite effect on her cranky little boy, and she saw the telltale tears began to gather in his eyes, his face flushing red. The aggravated mother sighed wearily, bracing herself for the great cry that was soon to follow.

"Don't you want to here the boys sing, and the great organ play?" she cajoled, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, trying desperately to calm her little son before the tantrum ensued. "Listen quietly, you can hear it now," she whispered into the boy's ear, as the strains of one of Mendelssohn's organ sonatas wafted through the great doors

"No!" he cried, his little fists rubbing at the tears in his eyes. Sobs began to gather in his chest, the dreaded wail welling in this throat. And then it rose up, unleashed in all its glory—a great howl that echoed across the yard. Churchgoers making their way into the nave turned their heads as nonchalantly as possible, to see whose child had emitted such a sound. Christine stomped her little foot in frustration, desperately bouncing the child, hugging him to her, anything to stifle his cries.

"Please, Jean-Paul, no more tears!" she begged. She could see, though, that her little son's sobs had reached such a point, that the wailing would only end when his tears ran dry, and sleep mercifully claimed the drained boy. She turned to the woman anxiously looking on at her side.

"Papi, the choir shall begin in minutes. You may go on, if you wish, and I can stay out here with my son until the service is over." She nodded towards the doors, both arms occupied by the wayward boy.

"Madame, I can remain with Jean-Paul; you listen to the music. After all, you were the one who wanted to hear the choir to begin with. And I find that my heart is just a little too heavy, still, to listen to the boys sing." The maid's voice cracked with sorrow at her last words, as thoughts of her own little boy surfaced once again.

Christine's face clouded with pain for her friend's grief, and nodded silently. "There is a sheltered cloister with a courtyard just beyond the nave, Papi, if you find that the air is growing too cold. Benches line the walls, and you can rest with Jean-Paul, if you like; I am sure he will cry himself to sleep in no time." The woman nodded at her mistress' words, straining to hear them above the little boy's cries. "I should not be more than an hour."

The young widow made her way through the heavy black oak doors and into the ancient nave of the abbey, her little footsteps across the stone floors echoing through the church, rising to join the reverberation of the last strain of music from the organ. The sound resonated throughout the Confessor's majestic house, and faded into the vast recesses of the massive vaulted ceiling and flying buttresses. The Comtesse glided along the side aisle, her eyes skimming the great names of the entombed along the wall and floor. Pausing at the edge of the pews, she spanned the immense gothic hall, breathing in the infinite splendor of the heart of the kings' and queens' venerable past – here was where they were crowned, and here was where they were buried. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her as the chill of the cold stones crept into her bones.

Passing between two ornate columns, she slid into a dark wood pew, settling into its smooth, hard back. Her eyes traveled over the elaborate choir screen at the head of the nave, and she listened with pleasure as the first sounds of the boys' choir rose up from behind it. The soft, pure strains of Purcell's _Music for Queen Mary _snaked about the room and reached her ears, sending pricks and tingles down her spine.

_"Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts…"_

So enthralled was she by the voices, that she was not aware of the graceful man that quietly slipped into the pew behind her, slightly to her left. He also settled himself, tucking his fawn-colored coat around him, and placed his hat on the bench at his side.

And so the pair silently sat through the Evensong, attending to the measured harmonies of the Purcell, then the gentle strains of the Latin cadence. Palestrina's _Missa Papae Marcelli _swelled, floated about them, pulling and drawing at all the senses of their bodies.

Erik leisurely closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the pew, the lilt of the _Kyrie eleison…Christe eleison_ engulfing him. One motet after another, the _Gloria…Credo…_the voices rising and falling like a rhythmic dance…

_"Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis…"_

A vision of years ago descended upon him as the gentle Latin graced his ears. One of Christine's voice lessons, in her dressing room…

"_You are late," came the smooth voice, icy in its irritation. "We were to begin your lesson in Latin today."_

"_My dear Angel, please forgive me," the girl pleaded. "I was so caught up in my visit with César, that I did not notice the time. I swear to you, it will never happen again!" she cried, desperate to soothe her teacher's anger. But instead of being calmed, the voice rose in fury at her words._

"_May I ask, my dear pupil, who the devil is César?" the voice hissed with contempt in a tone rather unlike that of an Angel. _

_Christine stuttered a bit at his question, unsure of whether to grin at the misunderstanding, or tremble at the rage seeping into the room. "Angel, I would never disobey your orders! César is not a man, but rather, a horse—the white one from _The Prophet_. I do love him so, and every now and again I visit him in the stables to bring him carrots and sugar." _

_The girl paused, waiting for a reply from the voice. When none came, she continued with a sad sigh. "Sometimes, I grow very lonely here. It is silly, really, but César always seems so happy to see me, as if he looks forward to our small meeting throughout the week…" her voice trailed away in embarrassment, her pretty cheeks flushing red as they always did._

_Erik lowered his head at her words, loathing himself for his anger towards her. For once, he was glad that he had the mirror to serve as a barrier between them…her words about the horse could have just as easily been spoken about him._

"_My child," he murmured, "all is forgiven. Besides, we have much to accomplish today. You see the music at your table? It is a solo soprano part from Mozart's Great Mass. We shall work on your Latin intonation, for I believe that it will help to improve your diction in other foreign language pieces, as well. It is important for you to understand opera's origins…"_

_That evening, in her blind gratitude for his forgiveness, her song rose up in glory, surely as an angel's did; the innocent purity of the Sanctus grasped at his heart, drew his very spirit from him in its sweetness. And as she sang, he once again let his soul soar with hers…_

_"…SANCTUS, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth…"_

Erik was vaguely aware of a slight shuffling about him, and opened his eyes to see that the heads of the worshippers were now bowed. He leaned forward, his elbows propped at his knees, hands clasped in front of him, as if he was also in deep concentration, reflecting on the Latin's meaning. In fact, he meditated on the delicately pinned curls directly in front of him, and studied their soft sheen, glowing from the diffused light streaming through the abbey's high windows. He softly inhaled her scent, the gentle lavender mixing with the cold mustiness of their surroundings.

Another hazy memory flooded upon him_…a dark, dank labyrinth…the horrible pain in his chest…Christine struggling in vain to support him through the cold passages, her arms wrapped about him, hair smelling of lavender…_

His eyes followed the intricate twists of her chocolate-colored locks, weaving in and out in some elaborate pattern, like the music spiraling about him. The man smiled gently as he remembered the girl's efforts to save his worthless life…_her loving hands, blistered from the heat, diligently massaging poultices into his chest…Her beautiful young face, gazing upon him with tears clouding her eyes._

"…_Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…Hosanna in excelsis…"_

_Gloria_…he whispered inaubibly, echoing the _Sanctus_. _Mon Ange…my Angel of Mercy…_

The boys' voices rose again in crescendo, the mass weaving a trance over the masked man. He lost himself to the swell of the music once again, the harmonies rich in the dank air of the church. Powerful waves of emotion swept over him; visions of Christine, the music, all swirled together into one grand composition. The passionate strains flowed through his very being, his mind frantically trying to sort through the notes, overwhelmed by how swiftly and violently the music possessed his soul.

_Christine…_

"…_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis…"_

With a start, Erik realized that the last part of the mass was being sung, and he still had several tasks to do. He shook his head to clear away the trance that he had been woven into. Sadly, not yet ready for the time with his beloved to end, he hesitated a moment, then gave in to the urge to touch the silky sheen of her hair. He leaned forward, running a long, thin finger under her black crape veil, and softly caressed her neck, burying his hand in the fine dark curls.

The young woman shuddered, then stiffened in fear at the feathery touch, paralyzed, too frightened to turn around.

He moved his face forward until his lips just grazed her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.

"_Anywhere you go, Christine…"_ he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. Then he swiftly withdrew his hand, slipping out of the pew and into the aisle.

The Comtesse quickly whirled around, her wide eyes shining with disbelief at the words that had just seared her ear. She rapidly scanned the back of the nave, her hand flying to her brow to block the glaring sunlight spilling through the abbey's open doors, streaming through the floodgates.

_There!…_

Her eyes followed the retreating silhouette of a man hastily making his way through the nave and out into the yard. She began to slide out of the pew in pursuit, but a small bit of white paper caught her attention in the vacated seat behind her. Gingerly, she picked it up and read the name scrawled across the front in red ink: _Madame de Chagny_.

Hesitating momentarily with desire to read the words, she instead pocketed the letter and flew back through the abbey, heedless of the echo her footfalls were producing, and that they were interrupting the last _Agnus Dei_ of the Evensong. She burst through the illuminated door and into the light, her eyes tearing and squinting at the sudden brightness.

The Comtesse scanned the yard for any sign of the man, intently glaring through the other pedestrians leisurely mingling about the grounds. She could spot no hurriedly retreating person among them; in fact, she did not even know what type of clothing to look for. Dejected, she slowly wandered about the yard, searching for Papi and her little son, and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of a white mask amongst the faces. After several minutes, she wandered past the deanery and into the cloister's courtyard.

The maid was leaning lightly against a cold, stone bench along the wall, her little charge playing at her feet with some small treasure. Christine smiled at the picture, noting that her stubborn son was still very much awake, the solid tantrum he had openly embraced earlier not having the tiring effect they had hoped for. Poor Papi, however, was very close to sleep, her eyes drooping slightly and head nodding back and forth. The Comtesse seated herself next to her friend, causing her to stir from her drowsiness.

"Oh, Madame, is the Evensong over then? I am sorry – I was just so tired, and the music floating through the abbey was so lovely, that I fairly fell asleep," the maid abruptly apologized, shaking the last of the fuzziness from her mind.

Christine laughed, taking her hand. "My dear Papi, there is no need for apologies. After I left you with my son, in the state he was in, it is I who should apologize." She leaned forward to ruffle Jean-Paul's now hatless head. "He seems much more content, now," she said, peering more closely at the little thing that amused him – a plush white horse with small eyes, mouth, and nostrils stitched in black, and creamy bits of yarn for a mane and tail. The mother knelt next to her child, puzzling over the toy. For the life of her, she could not remember acquiring the animal.

"Oh, that, Madame," said Papi, in explanation. "The strangest thing happened not ten minutes ago. A man, rather odd, strode into the cloister, as if he had specifically sought us out. Well, of course I was rather panicked and such, because he wore a mask; but he just nodded at me, and then glanced down to Jean-Paul. He knelt next to the boy, just as you are now, pulled that pony from his cloak, and placed it in the child's lap." The maid looked up to her mistress, unsure of whether she would be upset with her for letting the man close to her son.

Christine nodded anxiously for the maid to continue, her hands trembling at Papi's every word.

"Well, then he smiled at Jean-Paul, touched his gloved finger to the tip of the lad's nose, and said 'His name is César, and he is a fine horse that is highly thought of by a lovely _madame_, so you must take very good care of him.' And then he rose again, leaving straightaway, without another word. Oh, Madame, I hope it was not wrong of me to let Jean-Paul keep the animal. I could see no harm—"

But the maid's words suddenly died away as she saw her mistress' face blaze with some unreadable expression, something akin to hope and fear, mingled together.

"It was him, then; I am not mad!" cried the Comtesse, jerking the note from her pocket and running a finger under the wax seal, almost ripping the paper in half, in her eagerness to read its contents. Only a few words, written in the same red ink, graced the inside. A stiff piece of paper fluttered to the ground, and as she stooped to retrieve it, she saw that it was, in fact, a ticket of some sort.

_My dearest Christine,_

_Grant me the pleasure of your company this evening for a night of opera. I shall anticipate your arrival at my acquired box, numbered 'five,' naturally._

The Comtesse studied the details of the ticket again, amused at his choice of seating. Yes, the opera—Gluck's _Orfeo ed Euridice_, she noted—was indeed this evening at the Royal Albert Hall, at eight o'clock. The hall was not far from her place of residence, but she was still left with only three hours to return home, find something suitable to wear, and meet Erik for the performance.

_Meet Erik_…she mused, suddenly nervous with both dread and anticipation. After their last conversation, and every heated word he had proclaimed to her, the girl did not quite know what to make of the latest developments. But in the midst of her uncertainties, one piece of knowledge overshadowed them, driving fear to the back of her mind…

_He has come to me in London, after all! _

**Note:** Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website for some interesting story-related diddies. See my profile for details. Don't forget to sign the guest book, when you are there!


	11. The Elysian Fields

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. As barefoot advocat put it, the mythological characters portrayed in this chapter were created by a civilization long dead, so they can't sue me:)

**Side Notes:**  
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please **do not** give any secrets away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)_

**The Elysian Fields**

"_By thee, thee alone, Euridice, _

_can all the sorrow from my stricken soul _

_be banish'd…"_

_Orfeo ed Euridice_

Madame the Comtesse de Chagny alighted from the cab and weaved through the glitzy opera patrons mingling about at the base of the south stairs. The sunshine that had earlier warmed the day was now gone, and its absence left a bitter chill in the cold night air. Christine, having no desire to linger any longer than necessary amongst the opera crowd, made her was up the stairs and quickly slipped through the doors.

The girl glanced down at her clothing, a tad embarrassed at her state of dress. While most of the stylish young ladies swirled about her in a bright sea of colors that were all the rage of the day—deep scarlet, peacock blue, mandarin, sea green, purple—Christine was confined to the much duller charcoals and grays of mourning that society dictated.

When the young widow came to London, she hadn't even anticipated taking tea with her neighbors, let alone nights at the opera. So in the few hours before the performance of _Orfeo ed Euridice_ was to begin, she and Papi had scrambled about her room, frantically working their way through her unvarying mourning wardrobe, seeking anything that might be suitable for an evening amongst the society of London. At last, they settled on a fine, understated dress of velvet dark silver elegantly draped over a black taffeta skirt, brocaded and beaded with bits of jet. With luck, she had retained her chenille fringed opera dolman, fan, and gloves, as she had been unable to part with them for sentimental reasons. So in this respect, she somewhat managed to follow the dictates of fashion, despite the lack of an opera dress.

Sighing, the Comtesse quickly made her way through the great porches, up the grand staircase, and along the galleries surrounding the auditorium. Careful to avoid the possibility of having to converse with the opera patrons, she wandered along the empty halls until she found her box range. Her heart began to thump wildly in her breast at the possibility that her angel might be just beyond the thick red curtain of box five, neat and impeccable in his crisp evening wear. She timidly parted the drape to peek into the box…

He was not there.

Slightly dejected, the young woman slid through the curtain into the seclusion of her box and sauntered over to the edge to take in the lovely Royal Albert Hall. A contemporary of the _Palais Garnier_, the concert hall lacked the ornate and elaborate décor of the Paris opera, but more than made up for it with solid British regality. She studied the great circular auditorium, skimming along the other boxes directly across from hers. Her eyes followed the barely visible forms of patrons moving from one group to the other, enjoying light tête-à-tête before the curtain rose.

After several minutes of observing her fellow audience members, the Comtesse seated herself in her chair, distributing the folds of her skirt gracefully about her, smoothing out any wrinkles in the soft sheen of the material. She straightened her shoulders, patted her curls once again to ensure that they were all still in place, and lightly folded her hands in her lap across her fan, giving the impression of a serene woman patiently awaiting her companion. In fact, the girl's insides were a bundle of nerves, as anticipation swept over her; every slight noise would send her eyes darting to the curtained doorway. Sometimes she found herself intently focusing on the heavy gold cords of the drapes, watching for their slight movement, or a white, gloved hand to push them away.

How much time had passed – ten, twenty minutes? Most of the audience was seated by now, and the remaining few were making their way through the galleries to their groups. The orchestra had been playing odd notes and pitches for a while, tuning their instruments to perfection. Yet alone Christine sat, her errant teacher still missing from her side. And then the lights began to lower and the noise of the orchestra faded away. Her eyes clouded in desolation.

_He shall not come…_she thought with misery, chiding herself for her wretched daydreams. How she had hoped to rise gracefully to greet him, hold her hand out for his as he seated himself next to her. He would not let go of her fingers as the opera would commence, and they would once again lose themselves to the music… 

The overture floated about the hall, the sweet strains bringing a lump to her throat, and a few unbidden tears trickled down her now reddened cheeks. She sniffed delicately and rustled through her clutch for something to wipe away the wetness on her face. Of course, tonight would have to be the night that she forgot to carry a handkerchief. She leaned heavily against her hand, trying to hide her tears from the empty box, her elbow propped precariously on the arm of the chair. A few more drops fell from her eyes, and she angrily wiped at them with her gloved hand. A flash of white caught her attention, and her eyes swiftly flew up to the bit of cloth only inches from her face.

"Why is it you never seem to have a handkerchief on your person when you are in need of one?" the soft, smooth voice questioned, a hint of laughter threaded into its silkiness. Christine looked up and beheld the tall, elegant form of her angel bending slightly over her, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could only be construed as amusement. She sighed in relief and slowly reached up to accept the handkerchief from his proffered hand, her fingers lightly brushing against his. She dabbed at her eyes, the flush from her tears now flooding her entire face, embarrassed that he had caught her quietly sobbing at his absence.

"Forgive me, the story was so moving…" she began weakly, but fell silent as she realized with further mortification that the overture had not yet ended.

Erik, however, mercifully said nothing about her faux pas. Instead, he swung his opera cloak from his shoulders and moved to take his place at the chair next to his pink-faced companion. Leaning forward in silence, he studied the architecture and design of the large performance hall, eyes sweeping across the gallery, the boxes, and up to the ceiling. After several minutes, he nodded in appreciation of the structure, and settled back into his seat.

"I must apologize for my delay, Christine," he whispered as he inclined towards her, his face still turned to the stage. "You know my tendency to avoid...mingling in society. I prefer to sidestep it, if possible. So I could either have arrived very early, or slightly late. And as I had several tasks to complete…" He held his hand out in explanation as he turned his face to hers, hoping that she would understand that the apology was not only for tardiness this evening.

Erik saw that her tears had dried, and she was instead wringing his handkerchief about her fingers in an anxious fashion. At last, a small smile played at his lips, and he slowly reached his hand out to the fidgeting one in her lap. He wrapped his long, thin fingers about hers, ably calming her nerves and soothing her ruffled pride.

And so the curtain rose, and the ancient story of the undying love of Orpheus and Eurydice began.

_Eurydice's corpse lays limp and beautiful upon her stone resting place. Her husband, Orpheus, puts his hands to his face in utter agony and throws himself at her feet._

"_Weeping sorely I stray, _

_Mourning her pass'd away_

_I, left here lonely;_

_I call her sweet name,_

_Echo repeats the same_

_Kind Echo only…"_

_Mourners slowly wander about the bleak, boulder-filled stage strewing flowers, echoing Orpheus' grief. Male and female dancers hurl themselves against each other in a rapid dance of anguish. While all are silently consumed at her loss, Eurydice's spirit departs with a whisper of song._

Christine's fingers balled into a fist under Erik's warm palm as the funeral scene played out, and he knew that she was thinking of another funeral, not six months past. He glanced over at her face and saw her delicate lips tremble slightly in a valiant effort to push back the tears that once again threatened to surface. Silently, he cursed himself for picking this particular opera, realizing belatedly that the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice's undying love was perhaps not the best choice under the circumstances.

When he had acquired the tickets the previous day, _Orfeo ed Euridice_, while a rather dull, simple piece of work in his opinion, seemed immensely preferable to the Gilbert and Sullivan rubbish that had taken London by storm. That was, in fact, why the Royal Albert Hall was presenting an opera at all – something they normally did not do—to offer an alternative to the light farce, _Iolanthe_, that was currently playing at the _Savoy_.

As the story of Orpheus and Eurydice unfolded, however, the tension in Christine's fist slowly drained away, and her fingers eased under the security of her angel's hand. She turned her palm up to press against the soft white of his glove, and gently entwined her hand with his.

Surprised at this small gesture, Erik felt a knot of restraint loosen, and his chest suddenly ached with longing for her. And then Orpheus' hope and pain no longer remained detached upon the stage, but combined with the man's seated in the box. The husband's impassioned words touched at some part of Erik that he had suppressed for four long years, and every fear and yearning sung throughout the hall echoed his suffering.

_The goddess Amor, moved by the sad scene before her, gives the tormented husband permission to descend into Hades and lead his wife back from the dead. There is, however, one condition: _

_Orpheus must not turn his glance to Eurydice, nor offer an explanation for his behavior, or Eurydice shall be lost to him forever. _

_"Farewell, my sighs,  
my desires give me hope:  
for her I will suffer all things  
and brave any pain or danger.  
From the dark shores I shall  
set sail on the Stygian flow  
and the dread Tartarus'  
Furies shall I overcome.  
For her I shall dare all  
and challenge all comers."_

Erik silently echoed the words._ For her, I will suffer all things. _Once again, he remembered his words to Christine in Paris during his illness. She had not understood the reasons for his coldness then. How could she possibly hope to fathom it now, with him at her side in London?

_With exquisite pleading, Orpheus bravely confronts the spirits of Hades as writhing souls bash against the rocks all about him, screaming out to him the terrors and sorrow of the netherworld. But Orpheus, in his determination to find his beloved, cries that no torment hell offers can equal the fire of his ardent love: _

"_Ah, if ye could but feel the fire that burns within me,_

_Could ye but know what longing glows within my breast!_

_Once more to call her mine, my beloved, my sweet one—_

_Give her back, give her back to me…"_

Erik felt a light movement from the soft hand beneath his. Delicate fingertips slowly traced a path along the crease of his gloved palm. He sucked in his breath, his heart beating wildly against the confines of his chest. _Just a touch—a simple, innocent touch, and she shall once more drive me mad with need for her_, he thought in amazement.

_Oh Christine, my Eurydice, I can lead you from Hades, away from these madmen that hunt you, that would rip you to pieces—this I shall do for you. But do not ask for my love… Do not desire to dwell in the darkness with me, my beloved angel. You do not belong here…_

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

_How strange,_ thought Christine_, that simple words can never quite convey the thoughts and feelings our very beings ache to express._ _But when the words are spoken through song, we listen and speak in a language we both understand, that never ceases to prevail. _

She turned her eyes to her angel's profile, silently studying the intricate details of the exposed side of his face, now impassioned by the sway of the music flowing through him.

_He never seems to age, like an immortal god, _the woman mused. And yet, as she looked more closely, she could see the telltale crinkles here and there that had not existed four years ago. Soft lines were etched about the corners of his sensitive mouth and eyes; light streaks on his forehead betrayed many a night furrowed in concentration. To the observant eye, it was plain that the wrinkles were not created by laughter, but by pain. How she longed to wipe away the lines of sadness from his face, to ease the fire that raged within him yet.

And his eyes – oh, how they still flashed with such raw anger and bitterness…and passion.

_Turn your eyes upon me, Erik,_ she silently pleaded. _Let me see the love and anguish in them, the mirror to your soul. How I long for your glance…_

_The lovers' voices—Orpheus and Eurydice's—rise in a sorrowful, anguished duet that fills the very bowels of Hades. Eurydice vehemently accuses an apparently unfeeling Orpheus of not loving her. Her lover, however, can only deny the claim in order to lead her from the Elysian Fields; and so she does not understand why he will not look at her… _

Christine's inmost heart told her that he had heard her plea, as an almost imperceptible glint sparked in his burning gold eyes. And then the cool mask once again fell into place; all fervor that the music had drawn into his features, now erased. He deftly slid his hand away from her warm fingers and let it rest in his lap.

_And Eurydice sang on:_

"_But with thy hand, thou claspest mine no longer!_

_What—thou turnest away, and will not meet mine eyes? _

_Thy heart—and is it cold, now that we have met once more?" _

Christine searched his face for any revealing sign of sentiment.

_Erik, do not deny me, I beg of you,_ she entreated mutely, as Eurydice's pleas to Orpheus resounded through the great hall. _Only one look, and I shall be content just to know that you still love me, as you did before._

The man's jaw shifted ever so slightly in defiance, but it was all the verification that Christine needed.

"Erik," she murmured.

And as his eyes at last snapped about to face hers, she rejoiced to see that they were indeed filled to the brim with love for her. The girl gloried in her triumph over him—her teacher, her angel had submitted to her will at last!

The pleasure of her conquest, however, was short-lived. For as she was once again pulled into the depths of Erik's hard, glittering eyes, she saw in them not the expected passionate anger, but an overwhelming wretchedness. She quickly broke from his sad gaze to turn her eyes back to the lovers on the stage, watching grimly as the ill-fated Eurydice collapsed, dead, in her lover's arms. And Christine couldn't help but construe that in her own personal victory, she had somehow lost.

_

* * *

Damn this insatiable prying of yours, Christine!_

Erik studied the woman's ashen face and trembling hands, harshly cursing himself for yet again allowing her hopes soar, then crushing them under his foot. Suddenly, the opera and the fate of Orpheus and Eurydice no longer held any interest for him; he had no desire to stay and listen to the husband wax philosophically about love and loss. He could sense that Christine longed to somehow escape the sad scene as well. Brusquely taking her hand, Erik swiftly pulled her to her feet, grabbed their cloaks and his hat, and strode out of the curtained box into the hallway.

The young woman stumbled along behind him, struggling to maintain her balance as her shoes tangled in the black fabric of her skirts. She began to fall, but the man's strong arms came about her waist to steady her, all the while maintaining his rapid pace down the passage.

"But… the end of the opera…" the Comtesse called desperately, anything to draw the fleeing man's attention.

"Yes, we are not exactly reputed for finishing operas, are we?" he cynically tossed over his shoulder, still moving quickly through the halls. "You already know how it ends, Christine. Orpheus, in his despair, tries to kill himself. It should have been left at that, but Amor intervenes, and so we have the warm, fairy tale ending that all young ladies desire. Unfortunately, real life does not afford us such perfect solutions, does it?"

They rounded the corner into a dimly lit hall of the gallery, and he halted suddenly, sending an indignant Christine flying out in front of him. Anger rose up in her at his cold abruptness, and she whirled to face him, her chest heaving from the exertion.

"Why did you come to London—" she questioned heatedly. Or rather, began to question. For in that moment, all speech was silenced as Erik, in a single elegant motion, pulled her tightly to him, one hand digging into the small of her back, the other firmly ensconced in her soft, dark curls. His mouth came down upon hers with all the force of his earlier words, his lips bruising in his intense longing. Christine closed her eyes at the flood of sensation that welled up within her, stopping the breath in her throat.

A long, thin finger traced the length of her spine, causing her knees to go weak with one deft stroke. His mouth slowly moved to her ear, his breath warm and tantalizing.

"Four years, Christine," he murmured, his voice low and throaty, all smoothness gone. "I have thought of nothing else, but this."

Erik raised his blazing gold eyes to hers, yearning to see his passion mirrored there. What he glimpsed satisfied him immensely, and he again lowered his lips to hers, this time gently brushing them with a soft kiss. His hand at the back of her neck stole around to caress her cheek, and once more buried itself in the curls framing her face.

"Erik—" she moaned, but he put a finger to her lips, and continued.

"Four years…" he repeated, his voice breaking at the last word. "This obsession I harbor for you nearly drove me to complete and utter insanity—and I was already half mad with love for you. It was better for you to leave with that boy—"

A gruff "hmpf" sounded down the hallway, and the couple's eyes flew up to behold a stuffy matron, paused in mid-stride. She shot an icy glare towards them, her cool eyes sweeping over the black mourning clothes of the young widow. In a shocked manner, she tilted her chin up and waited in the most dignified way possible for the two to separate and leave the gallery.

Erik's eyes glazed over in a mocking manner, his mouth drawing up in a sneer. He deliberately lowered his mouth to the hollow of Christine's jaw, careful that the indignant woman would catch a full view of his white mask.

The dowdy matron's face paled at the sight, and her eyes widened with distress. Ever so slowly, she backed to the wall and around the corner again, as if she had just witnessed the devil himself preying upon a fallen angel. Erik could hear the soft, brisk clicking of her heels as she swiftly retreated back from whence she came. He sighed and pulled away from his beloved, vaguely aware of her arms dropping back to her sides.

The masked man bent to retrieve his cloak and hat that had at some point been tossed to the floor, then handed Christine her dolman. He gently took her fingers, placed them in the crook of his arm, and leisurely meandered down the gallery, his gloved hand resting upon hers, all resentment now released from his body. She fell into pace at his side, her shoulders gently shaking in merriment at the woman's scandalized demeanor.

"Alas," the Comtesse lamented, "I am now a brazen woman in the eyes of London society! Really, Erik, that was very cruel of you." She squeezed his arm lightly, encouraging him to play along. He instead respectfully patted her hand, then nimbly raised it to his lips and placed a soft kiss in her palm. Christine waited patiently for him to continue his earlier train of thought, before they had been interrupted. She soon realized with regret, though, that the moment had passed.

The pair leisurely continued on, pausing now and again to glance out the windows into the cold winter night of Hyde Park, wordlessly enjoying each other's companionship. Erik's thoughts flew back to the amusement he had felt earlier that day as he had watched the young woman and her son scamper about the park. Once again, he was staggered by the idea that his beloved Christine was a little mother. A smile teased his lips. _She is barely a child herself_, he mused, shaking his head.

"Tell me of your boy," he murmured softly, his eyes glancing down to hers in encouragement.

Christine's face lightened as she saw that her angel was now in good humor, and was interested to hear of her child. She stood straightly and smiled back, raising a finger to her lips in thought.

"His name is Jean-Paul, and he just turned two this past September. He's a little small for his age—I had a rather difficult time with him, and he was born early—but he's such a little sprite! Hair dark and curly, big blue eyes that are just brimming with wonder at everything—but I suppose you know that already. And he is so curious!" She had broken away from him now, and was waving her hands as she described her little one, her eyes aglow with joy. Erik remembered her son's eyes well—_they are very much like hers_, he thought with pleasure. He nodded for her to continue.

"Jean-Paul toddles about all day long, wearing out his poor _Maman_ and his nurse, Papi, and gets into everything within reach that his curious little eyes takes a fancy to: knick knacks, paper, bugs, jewelry, anything that sparkles and shines, really. And, of course, my toiletries." She smiled brilliantly as she considered her son, her entire being radiating with love for the boy.

Erik reeled as all air was suddenly knocked from his body by the force of her beauty. _Mon Dieu_, he had never seen her as stunning as she was now, her eyes bright, face rosy at the mere thought of her child; not even when she had sang for him was she ever brimming with such joy. He could only nod at her words, committing the memory to his mind.

"And the piano! He loves to reach his little hands up to the keys, and pound them until Papi cannot stand the sound of it anymore, and shoos him away." Christine paused, slightly scowling, sucking in her lower lip. "I suppose he will be a musician – he loves music so. Though, forgive me, I have not encouraged it; I have been very selfish in this aspect." She paused for a moment, looking up to her maestro for his reaction at her words.

"Why deny your son the thing you treasure so, Christine?" he whispered softly, searching her face for answers to a much, much deeper question.

"I suppose it is because I had lost my muse," she sighed, sad eyes meeting her angel's in response. "And foolishly, in my grief, I did not see how much my little boy needed a muse of his own." Her face fell as she reflected on her failure, and she breathed deeply in conviction. "But now… I swear that I will give him all the music that is in me."

Erik nodded in approval, and bent to place a light kiss on her temple. A question that had come upon him several weeks earlier, during his illness, suddenly surfaced again. Halting in their stroll, he turned to speak to her.

"Christine," he asked, questioning eyes searching hers, "why did you tell me so little of your son earlier, in Paris—not even his name?"

She exhaled heavily, the lines of sorrow in her face deepening. "I suppose I kept it to myself because I was unsure of how you would respond; you were very ill and angry at the time. And I know how you…disliked Raoul, so I thought that perhaps you would not react well to the idea of my having his child. Your temper can be so unpredictable…"

Christine hesitated, unsure of whether she should explain any further. Her angel's face had fallen visibly at her last words, and he had turned his face back to the window. Mustering her courage, she continued on.

"Erik, you must understand that I loved Raoul—I can't pretend that there was nothing between us, otherwise I would not have married him. At the time, he was the best person for a child such as myself—he gave me the solidity that I so craved. I would have given _anything_ to avoid being overwhelmed by feelings I did not understand, so I wouldn't have to decide…" she paused again, seeing that for her sake, he was desperately fighting to push back the bile that rose in his throat at the pain of her words.

"But now?" he whispered hoarsely, clinging to her every word as though he clung to a great cliff; afraid that once more, she would send him tumbling over the edge into bleakness, and at the same time hoping that she would raise him up in ecstasy.

Christine made no reply as she cautiously sorted through her thoughts.

"Do you still mourn for him, Christine?" he questioned with care, afraid of what the answer would be.

"I do miss him terribly, yes. But as to true grief…well, I am learning to put that behind me." She looked up at him with eyes full of hope, fear,…and yes, even love.

Erik sighed with relief and grasped her hand, once again raising it to his lips. He slowly led her to the edge of the gallery, and down the grand staircase. The low rumble of voices floated through the hall and gradually became louder. He realized with a start that the opera was over, and he had not even imparted to her what he had originally planned to that evening.

"Come," he whispered. "Let us walk for a bit in the park."

"The air is rather chilly," she said apprehensively, following him down the last few steps of the staircase and into the foyer of the hall.

"We shan't be long, I promise you. What I have to tell you should not be overheard." Erik lifted the dolman draped over her arm, and held it for her as she slipped her arms into the wide sleeves. He pulled the heavy material securely about her shoulders, then swept his own cloak about him, clasping it at his throat. Donning his hat, he gracefully led her through the door and into the cold night.

The pair immediately felt the frigid breeze push into them, and their breath became frosty, opaque puffs as they exhaled against the icy air of nighttime. Erik took the young woman's hand in his as they strolled down the gravel path that circled the hall, crossed Kensington Gore, and ran along the edge of Hyde Park. Not wanting to venture any further into the darkness of the trees, Christine stopped at the entrance gate, and turned to face her teacher.

"I can't imagine that anyone would find us here." She tried to laugh lightly, but her teeth clenched against the cold, causing her voice to sound pinched and nervous.

Erik stepped closer to her and gently pushed back a stray curl from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

"Christine, earlier you asked why I came to London. In spite of my words to the contrary, I have been rather busy in Paris since you left. And I believe that I have uncovered the identity of the people who are following you."

The Comtesse started at his words, and all color drained from her face, despite the sting of the wind.

"Tell me," she whispered breathlessly, the fear in her voice evident.

"The _Narodnaya Volya_," Erik uttered the words with loathing, his eyes boring into hers, waiting for her reaction. She stared up at him blankly, her confusion written across her face.

Sighing heavily, he whirled away from her to wipe away his incredulity and regain some semblance of composure in his features_. Does not one person of the French aristocracy follow the happenings in other countries?_

"_Narodnaya Volya, or the People's Will,_ is the revolutionary group that tossed the bomb into Tsar Alexander II's carriage, blowing him to pieces. Oh, they were peaceful enough in the beginning, encouraging the people of Russia to rally as one against tsarist rule. But I believe they grew rather impatient with the slow process of change, and turned to less…savory tactics to achieve what they wanted—public executions, death threats, the likes—"

Erik paused in his explanation as Christine's eyes widened with fright. He could see that her mind was reeling from his words, causing her legs to fail her, so he grasped hold of her shoulders, forcing her eyes to meet his. Her hands flew up to his elbows to steady herself.

"Better?" he asked gently, his eyes searching hers. She silently nodded, and he continued on in a smoother tone.

"Their threats didn't work, however, because instead of being frightened into submission, Alexander III clamped down even harder. His regime counterattacked, stifling the revolution before it claimed his life as well. More than 2,000 _People's Will_ revolutionaries went to trial, which caused them to lose the support of the masses. Are you following me thus far, Christine?"

She nodded, at last finding her voice. "I don't understand," she muttered, her voice cracking in her shock. "What could they possibly want with me?"

"That is what we need to find out. You see, the _People's Will_ has realigned itself in Paris, and has been desperately struggling to gain power again. This makes them all the more dangerous—which was why they are being so closely watched by the _Sûreté._ And according to those malicious little notes they were sending you, you seem to have, or know, something that would harm their movement."

"But I don't know anything, I swear," she whispered, her lips white and trembling. "Thank God they can't find us! I don't know what I should do if—"

"Christine," Erik interrupted brusquely, deciding that bluntness was the best way to make her truly understand the danger she was in. "They already know you are in London! Don't you see, that is why I am here? Your fool of an _avocat_ opened a bank account for you, and sent _letters_ to this solicitor—"

The ashen woman began to sway again, breathing heavily at his words. Erik felt her knees begin to slide out from under her, and he quickly wrapped an arm about her waist to keep her from crumbling to the ground. In shock, she stiffened in his embrace as the impact of his words flooded into her mind. A low moan escaped her lips as she suddenly thought of her little boy, and she harshly pushed against the man, flinging herself away from him.

"Jean-Paul! He is at home, and they don't know—oh God, no one knows that they have found us. Why did you take me away from there? They are all alone—" her cries of despair broke off as she sprinted down the path back to the concert hall. Erik fell into step behind her, and picked up his pace until he was just at her elbow. He reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her to an abrupt stop to halt her flight. She struggled wildly against him, but his hands firmly held her shoulders.

"Look at me," he ordered, his gold eyes searching the mother's frantic face. Christine's eyes rose to meet his, hers still wide and panicked in her terror. "I would _never_ put your child in danger. Trust me, they are well taken care of."

Christine looked up at him questioningly; a glazed expression still suffused her face.

"There are two men secretly guarding your residence—they have been for several days now—members of the _Sûreté._ I think you will find that for this evening, your son is quite safe."

"The _Sûreté_?" The woman retorted dryly. "I told you, Erik, they did nothing to help me in Paris. Why should I trust my son to them, now?"

"I think you will find that they have become much more cooperative, now that they know who has been threatening you. I believe they finally understand that you truly need assistance, and that you are not, in fact, a disturbed diva hell-bent on ruining every opera she comes in contact with." The amusement in Erik's lilting voice gently soothed Christine's raw nerves, and slowly, a weak smile played at her lips. Erik sighed with relief, and continued their walk back to the Royal Albert Hall. Taking up her hand once again, he placed it in the crook of his arm, content with how well it fit there.

"Tomorrow," he began calmly, "quietly pack your things—not much. For when I come for you tomorrow night, you and your family shall move to my home here in London. It won't be long before the _Narodnaya Volya_ finds your _avocat's _foolish solicitor, and he gives them your address. It's best to leave quickly, before that happens."

The Comtesse nodded at his words, a sad expression crossing her face as she reflected over the obliteration of her newfound, peaceful existence. An icy gust of wind blew across the open yard, sending a shiver up her spine, chilling her to the bone. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her, and quickened her pace to Kensington Gore, her eyes skimming the road for a hansom.

Erik halted in his stride, pulling her back to him, and put a finger delicately under her chin. Her eyes lifted to meet the warm gold of his, speaking lowly.

"No more sad thoughts, now, my angel. Tonight, you shall be safe—I won't be far away."

**Note:** Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website for some interesting story-related diddies. See my profile for details. Don't forget to sign the guest book, when you are there!


	12. White Knight

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, in this chapter, I suppose I own all of the characters, save for Christine and Erik. And Raoul. And his family. I guess I own about half, then.

**Side Notes:**  
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please **do not** give any secrets away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)_

**White Knight**

Papi stared with incredulity at her mistress seated across the table, her mind struggling to comprehend everything that the Comtesse had imparted. She could only shake her head, her mouth gaping in mute amazement at the inconceivable story that had just been told to her. She glanced over at her father, Norry, and saw that he too had been rendered to a speechless stupor.

The Comtesse's face flushed under their dubious stares, her fingers toying nervously with a bit of trim at her sleeve. She grabbed up another crumpet to keep her hands busy, and nibbled on the corner. Setting it back on her plate, she lifted her teacup with a trembling hand and tried to bring it to her lips, but set it down again after sloshing lukewarm tea onto the tablecloth.

"The whole affair is not so unusual, really, when you think about the rather unconventional life one leads when part of an opera house…" The woman glanced about nervously, not daring to look at the doubtful faces of the old caretaker and his daughter.

"But Madame," whispered Papi hoarsely, at last finding her voice. "To pretend that one is a ghost?…"

"An' live under an opera house," Norry added gruffly, his hackles rising at the thought of putting those dearest to him into the protection of some madman. "If this group—the Nardyin—I can't even pronounce it—if they are as dangerous as you say, are you sure he can look out for you?" The old caretaker grabbed up a bit of cheese and popped it into his mouth, as if to emphasize his question.

Christine put her head in her hands, frustrated that her explanations had not been received as she had wished. _Of course they are skeptical_, she thought wryly. _Who would not be after hearing such a tale? _

"Yes," she replied, pleading for understanding. "I know that it sounds bizarre, and…well…insane. I promise you, though, that he is a genius, and an extremely cautious one. And though I don't know the particulars, he has a bit of experience in…this type of thing," she finished lamely, not knowing exactly how one referred to the art of revenge and murder.

The Comtesse glanced to each of their faces, and saw that her latest revelation had not, in fact, helped her cause. She sighed, dejection and despair written throughout her countenance. Tapping her nails nervously against the tabletop, she reached for her crumpet again; this time, she did not even put it to her lips. She instead stared at it nauseously, her fingers playing with the flaky crumbs, as food was now the last thought from her mind.

Papi's soft brown eyes studied the woman intently, and recognized the weary look about her. The way her shoulders slumped in resignation and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she had had a long, sleepless night, in spite of the reassurances this strange masked man had apparently given to her.

_She really is trying to be strong,_ the maid considered, and taking pity on the poor woman, reached across the table to pat her hand comfortingly.

Christine gave the woman a weak smile, exhaling heavily. "I don't know what else to do…" she whispered with gravity. "If the two of you wish to return to the estate in Paris, I shall not argue – that is your prerogative. Jean-Paul and I, however, shall remain here in London. And from here…I don't know where we shall go. But I do not imagine that we can remain hidden forever."

The caretaker grunted at her words, shaking his grizzled head. "My lady, you don't think that we would up an' leave you an' the little tyke here, all alone? Now I won't pretend that I'm in high spirits about the idea of living with this odd fellow, when we don't know anything about him— yes, even you, Madame, if you beg my pardon," the old man interjected as Christine opened her mouth in protest. "Other than the few things you told us, you don't know much, either. An' what you do know is not very pleasant. If you ask me—"

"Enough, _Papa_," the little maid said gently, sensing the indignation that was rising in her mistress. She squeezed the woman's hand and looked directly into her eyes.

"Madame de Chagny, can you swear to me that this Erik will help us find the men that killed my little Perri?" Her eyes were as hard and cold as stone now, and glittered brightly at the thought of revenge.

Christine met her gaze, the anger and desire for justice reflecting that of her friend's. "_Je vous promets_, Papi. I swear to you, we will do whatever is necessary."

Papi nodded in acceptance of her words. "Very well, Madame. Then I shall accompany you wherever you decide to go, until we can make those monsters pay," she uttered resolutely, and rose from the table to begin the preparations to once again flee their home.

* * *

Papillon Nitot had lived and served the Chagny family all of her life, like those of her family that had come before. For more than a century, the Nitots had been loyal employees of the proud Chagny lineage, and had followed them throughout dark and volatile times: the French Revolution, the Napoleonic era, the Franco-Prussian war, and several Paris uprisings—the latest being the Commune but ten years ago. And amazingly, through each of these treacherous conflicts, every Comte de Chagny had weathered the storm like a massive, immoveable rock; the waves of chaos crashed upon him, and still he immerged from the sea unscathed.

Papi had been raised on the old tales of the near-legendary figure, Georges Léon de Chagny, who, in his foresight, was able to preserve his family and all those that served him during the French Revolution. He played a perilous game of roulette, but managed to ride the political waves and maintain the position of "silent observer." While giving lip service to the ill-fated King Louis XVI and his royalists, the Comte secretly used his brilliant tactical mind to quietly influence the National party and their rising celebrities, such as Lameth and Duport. By doing so, he was able to steer his family out of the bloody undercurrents of Robespierre's Reign of Terror and away from the guillotine, unlike so many less-fortunate aristocrats who lost their heads.

And more recently, there had been the Paris Commune of 1871. Papi had been a girl of fourteen at the time, and she still vividly remembered the Comte Philippe de Chagny relocating his entire household in a far-away corner of Brittany, to an estate neighboring that of his aunt's. The Comte then bravely returned to Paris to protect his holdings from the mob rule that threatened the government and its wealthy upper-class. During those two dark months of spring, he defied the Communards by living and working in the city that ran red with the blood of aristocrats and peasants alike. Yet the good fortune of the Chagny line once again prevailed, for Philippe miraculously managed to retain his life, as well as almost every franc of his wealth.

It was during this time that the young Raoul de Chagny and his governess were sent to live with the rest of the household at Lannion through the summer, his aunt serving as his guardian.

Papi remembered the excitement that buzzed throughout the estate the day the ten-year-old child arrived, for all the servants loved the handsome golden boy, their young prince. Never was a cross word uttered from his lips, as he always deigned to treat each member of the household with love and respect. He had a charming, polite way about him that would often earn him a hug from the housekeeper, or a sweet from the cook.

Papi had been a bit in love with the child as everyone else had been, but as she was only a few years older than him, she thought of him as her own special charge. And throughout that carefree summer in Brittany, the young Vicomte looked up to her as he would a sister, and often requested that she accompany him and his governess on his trips to the sea.

It was on one such walk that a lovely, clear voice had soared to them from a small inlet along the shore…

_Raoul, in his curiosity, tripped along the golden beach until he found the owner of the voice—a little girl, perhaps eight or nine, with loose dark curls that whipped about in the strong wind. The deep red scarf wrapped around her throat was a stark contrast to the pale white of her face, and was the only splotch of color in the gray, overcast sky that served as a backdrop to her slight frame. _

_The boy raised a hand and waved it about wildly in greeting. He cupped his hands about his mouth and called to her above the thunderous roar of the waves, then jumped back as the blustery weather scattered sprays of salty water about him, as if scolding him for disturbing the peace of the inlet. The little girl giggled at his surprise, her laughter floating to his ears like the lovely song she had just sung. _

"_You sound like an angel!" he cried as a wide, toothy grin spread across his face. The young girl ducked her head shyly at the boy's compliments and glanced once more out to the sea. _

_At that moment, a brisk gust of wind whipped about them, swirling sand into the air. The little girl's hands flew to her eyes to shield them from the tiny pellets, and the slight movement sent her lovely red scarf fluttering away. She let out a small squeal of despair and started to chase after the cherished bit of fabric, but halted as she hopelessly watched it settle into the lapping waves of the sea. She stamped her foot in frustration, the tears beginning to well up in her eyes._

_The young Vicomte hurried to her side, and grasping her hand, cried, "do not be sad, Mademoiselle; I shall fetch it for you!" Before the little girl could respond, the fearless lad rushed into the waves after the sinking red scarf, swinging his arms about to keep his balance as the choppy waves pushed against him. As he wandered deeper into the ocean, he leapt with the taller waves, trying to avoid being sent tumbling about in the undertoe. At last, when his shoulders were just above the water, he grasped the desired object and brandishing it about his head like a victory flag, waded through the water back to the shore._

The governess, who had been huffing and puffing to keep up with the children, at last rounded the corner into the inlet. Her eyes took in the scene with horror, and she crossly called to her young charge.

"_Please, _jeune Maître_, come out of the water at once! You shall catch a chill—" _

_A loud snort interrupted the woman's rebuke, and the mousy woman looked sharply at Papi, who was doubled over in hysterical laughter at the antics of the young boy. The little Vicomte, now completely soaked through to the skin, was shaking his sopping head violently to rid it of ocean debris, sending small missiles of saltwater and sand flying through the air. _

_He strutted over to the young girl, his blonde hair wildly sticking up about his face, and held out the rescued treasure for her to claim. She took the scarf delicately between her thumb and index finger, watching as seawater dribbled from the sandy, grimy miserable bit of fabric. Her lovely red scarf was obviously ruined, but she said nothing on that, choosing instead to laugh merrily and stand on tiptoes to plant a small kiss on the boy's salty wet cheek for his efforts. _

"_Thank you," she whispered, now flushing furiously at her boldness. The Vicomte de Chagny offered her another winning smile._

"_What is your name, Mademoiselle?" _

_The girl stuttered a bit under the boy's open gaze. "C-Christine Daaé, Monsieur," she said softly, and dipped in a quick curtsy. "My father and I live not far from here, in Perros-Guirec."_

"Jeune Maître_!" cried the governess sternly, stalking over to the two children, and grasped the little Vicomte's ear. "What nonsense that was, all for a bit of scrap! Your aunt will be very displeased when she hears of your actions today." The harsh woman turned to Mademoiselle Daaé. "Run along home now, child—you should not be wandering about aimlessly, with no one to look after you." _

_The girl abruptly turned to do as she was told, but on a whim, called over her shoulder to the little boy. "You must come to the home of Professor Valerius, and my father shall play the violin, and tell you stories." She smiled shyly, grabbed up her shoes and stockings, then lifted her skirts and scampered over the hill, away from the beach. _

And that was the way it had always been with regards to Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. His kind attentions and willingness to come to the rescue made him a favorite to all who met him. With his handsome face and genuine, unassuming smile, no one could deny him anything.

Papi remembered the frightful, dark day seven years ago when she found that she was with child. Foolishly, she believed that her lover, a well-mannered doorman employed by a neighboring estate, would take her in his arms and propose marriage at once. Sadly, the man was gone the next morning, without even the courtesy of a note to explain his abrupt departure. Papi had been left to pick up the pieces and to explain her predicament to her employers.

It had been Raoul that had found the poor woman weeping miserably in one of her father's gardens, and after a bit of gentle prying, she had been unable to resist spilling the entire sad story to the young Vicomte. He, in turn, interfered on her behalf with Philippe, convincing his older brother that the maid was indispensable to the family and should be allowed to stay on at the estate. The Comte, though often a proud and haughty man, loved the boy dearly and usually gave in to his whims (as long as they were sensible and practical). The aristocrat really had no desire to turn the faithful servant out onto the streets, either, so the decision had not been a difficult one.

From that day forward, Papi was so grateful to her rescuer that she silently pledged loyalty to the young Vicomte and his family until the day she died. And not three years after her little boy, Perri, was born, she found her devotion tested…

"_Papi," the Vicomte peeked his head into the old caretaker's kitchen, calling softly to the young maid, careful not to wake the sleeping child in her lap. The woman started at the sound, then exhaled in a rush as she saw who was at her door. She quietly bade him come in, and motioned to the chair across from her. He strode into the room, pulled out a wooden chair from the table, and settled into it. _

"_I have some news to impart to you, but I must have your word that you say nothing of it to my brother. Can I count on your loyalty?"_

"_Yes, Monsieur," she said quietly, suddenly brimming with curiosity. "You know that you have it."_

_His eyes fell upon a bowl of red apples sitting upon the table, and Papi gestured for him to take one. He grabbed up the large round one on top, noisily bit into it, and chewed it slowly and thoughtfully. Noting Papi's impatience for his news, his eyes crinkled teasingly and he leaned forward on his elbows in a conspiratorial manner._

"_Do you remember the little girl from Brittany—the one who lost the red scarf in the sea that I retrieved?"_

_Papi laughed softly, the happy recollections of that long-ago summer stirring in her memory. "Yes, how could I forget? Your cross governess gave you such a scolding when we returned to Lannion, that I had to run for your aunt to intervene."_

_The young man's handsome, white smile spread across his face. "Christine is to be my wife, Papi. I spoke with her two nights ago at the opera, where she sings. But no one can know of it yet. There are some…obstacles that must be overcome before we can wed."_

_Though she yearned to ask what kind of obstacles he hinted at, she held her tongue, not forgetting her place. "What can I do to assist you, Monsieur?" she instead questioned, desiring to be of some service to the man that had, in a way, saved her life along with her reputation. _

_The man nodded his appreciation at her friendship. "When I bring her home as the Vicomtesse, she will need someone—a woman—to show her the ins and outs of the estate, the aristocracy, and so forth. She is not familiar with our way of life, and I think she would very much like to have you as a friend, and a guide of sorts. Would you be willing to be a lady's maid to her, Papi?"_

_The woman sighed in relief, glad that she was not being asked to do anything that might anger the Comte. "Oh yes, Monsieur, I would be honored to help your bride in any way that I can!"_

In the end, however, secrecy proved to be unnecessary. For when Raoul returned to the estate with his lovely new wife, he did so openly as the new Comte de Chagny. Instead of bringing her home to a household overflowing with joyful celebration at the marriage, however, they settled quietly into their new positions out of respect for the now deceased Philippe. The Comte had drowned in the lake under the opera house amidst the chaos of that night—the very same night the couple had eloped.

And just as Raoul and Christine's marriage had begun in the shadow of death, so death seemed to follow them throughout their short years together, until it eventually called to claim one of them. Papi began to tear at the sad memories that forever plagued her; the loss of the young Comte de Chagny, then her son, Perri.

_Perri…_

She shook her head fearfully against the unbidden image of her precious little boy's body, lifelessly crumpled upon the cold floor of the stables, discarded with as little care as one would take when throwing out an old shoe, or dirty cloth.

_No!_ She would not think on it, not now, not yet; it was too soon. And she still had her father, the Comtesse, and little Jean-Paul to care for. Her loyalty, her duties—they would be her life, fill her mind until that inevitable day when she would have to face her demons.

Papi's thoughts were interrupted by the Comtesse's cry from the stairwell.

"Oh! Its beautiful! Papi, come and see…"

The maid heard the rustle of fabric as she drew closer to the room, and entered to find her mistress holding up a lovely, deep blue dress to her person, admiring the fine fabric.

"Just look at this—it is perfect—absolutely perfect." She carefully laid the dress on the bed and spread out the sleeves and skirt to admire it. The material, though minimally trimmed, was elegantly pleated about the hem and dramatically draped into a bustle in the back, revealing the lighter blue skirting underneath. Satiny blue ribbons were woven about the bodice, then ran the length of the skirt in a crisscross pattern.

"There is one for you, as well!" Christine pulled another dress from the large box atop her bed, and laid it on top of the blue. This one was done is a mossy green color, also with minimal frill; understated and practical, yet still stylish, just as she preferred. In fact, if she had been at the dress shop, she would have picked this over any other.

"Where did these come from, Madame? Surely my father did not pick them out." The maid eyed the dresses suspiciously, already knowing the answer before the Comtesse responded. The thought that someone could sum her up so thoroughly after one brief meeting sent shivers up her spine.

Her mistress reached into the box and pulled out a crisp, white note that was tucked inside a fold of tissue. Papi immediately recognized the same scrawling red ink that had graced yesterday's missive.

With hands trembling in excitement, Christine ran a fingernail under the wax seal and opened the note. Clearing her throat delicately, she read:

"_My dearest Christine, _

_It is time to put your mourning behind you. I ask that you and your lady's maid refrain from bringing your current black wardrobes with you to my home, for several reasons: the first and foremost being that you are more easily tracked when you are in mourning. All of your needs shall be provided for at your new residence, so have no concerns in this respect. Until this evening,_

_I remain yours…"_

The young woman's voice trailed away as she read the last few words in silence, then smiled gently. Papi could only wonder what had been written. She cautiously fingered the soft green material of the dress, running her fingers lightly over the seams. It was then that she noticed a blood red rose atop the nightstand, where the Comtesse had carefully placed it so it would not be crushed amidst the folds of fabric and tissue. An uneasy feeling settled into her chest.

_What does this man truly want?_ the maid secretly wondered, not at all comfortable with the subtle way he exuded his influence over the Comtesse. Oh, Papi could see the sense of ceasing to wear the distinctive black veil of mourning, to be sure. That was a dictate of society, and they were no longer amidst their friends. But his choice of words, the rose, the rich hue of the blue dress, so similar to Christine's eyes…all signs of feelings that ran much deeper than friendship.

No, in spite of the Comtesse's reassurances to the contrary, the maid could not quite bring herself to put her faith in this man. However, she had placed her faith in Raoul de Chagny, and if he had sent this Phantom to them…

Well, only time will tell. Papi sighed as she responded to her mistress' exclamations over the gift, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website for some interesting story-related diddies. See my profile for details. Don't forget to sign the guest book, when you are there!


	13. Black Knight

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, in this chapter, I suppose I own all of the characters, save for Christine and Erik. Hurrah!

**Side Notes:**  
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please **do not** give any secrets away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)

_Le Chat Noir – your cameo is in this chapter, as a thank you for your research help._

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)_

**Black Knight**

The dockworker leaned heavily against the brick wall of the upscale town home, cloaked in the darkness of the alley. To any passerby that happened to see him, they would think it rather odd that a rough, weathered river-man was hanging about the streets of the Kensington neighborhood, and would quicken their pace to avoid being harassed, or worse, robbed.

Hale knew he was out of place—it was his intention to be so. For if the two men positioned somewhere across the road were aware that the home was being closely guarded, they would be less likely to make any kind of move until the Comtesse was being spirited away. And that would draw them out of hiding, so he could make his move.

The watchers were hidden from sight now, as they also used the shadows to the best of their advantage. He knew that they were still there, however, for every now and then, his astute ears would pick up a muffled whisper, or the slight shuffling of feet against gravel.

The home had darkened since dusk had fallen, and the only bit of light that emitted from the draped windows was the flicker of a candle in a third story window. Hale knew that the covered panes most likely concealed a flurry of activity within, for at any moment his partner, Murry, would arrive with a hansom cab to bear the Comtesse and her family to safety.

As if on cue, the rather outdated, rickety carriage slowly rounded the corner and pulled to a stop. The lone passenger descended from the cab, his person completely shadowed in a great, billowing cloak and a wide-brimmed fedora, pulled down to hide his masked face. The man casually strode over to the front steps as if in no hurry, but Hale saw his eyes dart quickly in the agent's direction, where he was tucked away in the alley.

"Good evenin', gov'," the dockworker cried from his corner. "Bright night, this one. Th' moon is sure shinin' down tonight, as hif someone asked hit to brighten up the sky a bit."

The passenger turned to the _Sûreté_ agent. "Yes, darkness does tend to lend itself to mischief. Tell me, sir, how do the streets fare tonight?" he replied, his English smooth and crisp. Striding over to the man, he leaned forward, close enough to converse quietly, away from interested ears.

Hale lowered his voice to a whisper. "Two of them, next to the building just over there," the man said in rapid French, all traces of the dockworker's cockney now gone. "When the Comtesse leaves, they will most likely try to follow. And as Murry will be driving the cab, I will need your assistance."

The man nodded in assent, and paused a moment in thought, reflecting on the docker's words. "So you are French, then. I did not think that 'Hale' was your real name. Are you known only as 'Hale'?"

"Just as you are only known as 'Erik.' Most things are not what they seem in my occupation. But then again, you already know that," the man stated, choosing his next words carefully.

"I have made a few inquiries about you; some to Nadir Khan, and some to other sources. You were an assassin for the shah of Persia." The masked man started at his revelation, then relaxed nonchalantly, glaring back at the clever agent.

"Shall you arrest me then, Monsieur?" Erik leered, his eyes flashing. "Turn me in to Scotland Yard, perhaps? I am sure that I could answer many questions that have plagued them for years."

Hale shook his head. "You will find that many of us in the _Sûreté_ have similar backgrounds. Perhaps not as…distinguished as yours, nor so long a list of victims," the man replied matter-of-factly. "However, Monsieur, you must understand my need for caution in this case. The opera murders…they were not exactly political assassinations—"

"Thank you for your words, Monsieur," Erik coldly cut in, and abruptly turned back to the stairs. "I shall see Madame de Chagny off, and then return to assist you with your watchers."

Hale paused a moment, then nodded in agreement. _He certainly knows how to cover his tracks, _he thought as he watched Erik confidently stride up the stairs once more. And the agent once again had the sneaking suspicion that the man's time spent in Persia was only a small portion of his vast experience with death.

* * *

Christine stood with her back pressed against the wall, clutching the knife in her little hand so tightly that her knuckles were bone white. She had heard the abrupt rap at the door, but wavered with indecision just beyond the handle, afraid of what might lie behind it.

_It must be Erik,_ her mind told her logically. _Who else could it be? Killers do not usually knock before they enter_…

And yet not a muscle in her body moved. All of her joints were locked into place, tense with fear; breathing came in quick, shallow gulps. Her eyes widened as the door slowly creaked open, and her fingers squeezed snugly about the dagger handle.

Then the man's face came into view in the dim light of the foyer, and the Comtesse exhaled the air that had been held in her aching lungs, relief flooding over her. The knife clattered to the floor, and she flew towards the masked man at the door. He whirled around at the sudden movement, then braced himself in surprise as the woman flung her arms about him, accidentally knocking his hat from his head. She buried her face in his neck, the dark wool of his cloak collar soft at her cheek.

Erik's arms came up around the girl and he held her close, reveling in the comfortable contact that was still so new and unfamiliar. His finger slowly traced along her spine as he reminisced over the moment they had shared the night before, in the quiet gallery of the concert hall. He felt her lips curl into a smile about his neck, and he knew she understood the meaning behind his subtle gesture.

"Thank you for the lovely rose," she whispered into his ear and turned her head slightly so he would notice that she had tucked it into her brown curls. He smiled gently down upon her, touched by the small act.

"And the dress—I hope it is to your liking, as well?"

"Yes, very much so!" Christine laughed merrily, and all thoughts of the _People's Will_ vanished now that her angel was at her side. She slid from his arms and gracefully turned a circle, holding out the folds of the rich blue material for him to observe.

It was then that she caught sight of the rest of the household descending the stairs; the old man's arms full with their valises and cloaks, Papi's with her little charge. The maid's face was considerably paler than it had been earlier, and while the Comtesse noted that she was wearing the green dress Erik had sent along with the blue, she looked none too pleased about it.

Christine strode over to her two friends and reached out for the sleepy Jean-Paul, nestled in Papi's arms. The boy, still clutching the white toy horse, opened his eyes drowsily at the movement and wrapped a small fist behind his _Maman's_ neck, a faint sigh escaping his lips.

"Oh, _mon petit homme_, we are tired, aren't we?" the mother cooed into her son's ear, brushing a few unruly curls from his forehead. She slowly made her way over to the man at the door, her eyes dancing joyfully at the thought of introducing her precious boy to her maestro.

"I do not believe that you have been properly introduced," the Comtesse said, her delight spilling into her voice. She jostled Jean-Paul a bit and murmured a few soft words to the little boy. He opened his bleary eyes again, but they widened considerably when he saw the masked man before him. Christine perceived some spark in her son's memory, leading her to believe that perhaps he remembered that the person who had asked him to care for César had also worn a mask.

"Jean-Paul, this is Erik," she said gently. "But you should call him Monsieur, as I have taught you. Can you say _Monsieur_, my little man?"

The boy struggled over the word a bit, but with his mother's gentle encouragement, he managed to spit it out.

"_Bonjour_, M…Mon-sieur."

He turned quickly to his mother, and she smiled sweetly at the boy, nodding her approval. She then looked up to her angel, her face beaming with pride, and saw that his eyes glistened with some unfathomable expression.

"_Bonjour_, Jean-Paul," the man replied, speaking to the boy with a tone of voice that one would use with an adult. Christine mused over this, and realized that Erik must have very little, if any, experience with children. She again murmured something unintelligible into the boy's ear, and he buried his face in her shoulder. The young mother gently lifted the boy's chin, and turned him to face the masked man.

"Say thank you for the horse, Jean-Paul," she said a bit more firmly.

"Christine, really—" the man began, but the Comtesse shook her head.

"He needs to learn these things." She frowned at her little son, and spoke in a tone of voice that was sure to get his attention. "Jean-Paul?"

"_Merci_," the small voice replied quickly. Then his eyes glistened with curiosity as something caught his eye, and he dislodged his fingers from his _Maman's_ hair. Leaning away from her, his small hand reached out to the man's face.

"What's that?" the boy questioned, his eyes brimming with interest in the white mask. Erik flinched away from the prying fingers, and cast a warning look to Christine. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she hastily grabbed her son's little fist, pushing it back to his side.

"I warned you that he was curious," she laughed nervously, her eyes full of apology.

"I have no idea where he gets it from," Erik muttered, maintaining a tight fist of control over his irritation.

The young woman shrugged off her teacher's sarcasm, and turned to Papi and Norry, who had come up to her side at some point during the exchange. She gestured to them, and made the necessary introductions.

"My caretaker, Norris Nitote," Christine nodded to the grizzled man, and the old servant reluctantly offered his hand to Erik.

"And you have met his daughter, Papillon. She is my lady's maid." Papi bobbed in a small curtsy, her silent disapproval evident in every movement.

"Madame," Erik inclined his head to the woman in greeting. She frowned slightly, and Christine belatedly realized that she should have properly introduced the woman.

"No, Monsieur, it is just _Mademoiselle_," Papi replied, her voice cool and detached.

Christine interrupted the exchange, trying to ease the palpable tension in the room. "Both have been very good friends, and have loyally served the Chagny family for many years," she explained to Erik, valiantly trying to smooth over the situation. Papi simply turned away, however, and went to lower the rest of the lamps before they departed.

Erik stooped over to retrieve his hat from the floor, then reached for Christine's cloak to assist her with it. She smiled in thanks and moved about the foyer, helping Papi to put out the remaining lights. Now shrouded in darkness, only the moonlight filtering in through the open door offered any sort of guidance through the night. The Comtesse picked up her son and drew a deep, shaky breath.

"Well, we are ready, I suppose."

* * *

Erik handed Christine into the carriage, then stepped back to see them safely away, her gentle words still clinging to his ear. Her beloved face had fallen considerably when she realized that he would not be accompanying them to their new residence, but after he reassured her that he would be along directly, her anxiety had eased a bit.

Leaning out of the cab, she had placed her lips next to his ear, her breath warm and enticing. _"Come home soon, then,"_ she had murmured softly, then swiftly planted a kiss on his cheek.

_Home…_

Did she, could she possibly ever consider the place where he resided her home, as well? Her brief words had held so many possibilities, such promise…

_Potential for disaster, as well,_ he mused, thinking of the old caretaker and his daughter.

Erik had carefully studied the two servants' faces, their slight uncomfortable movements, the way their eyes darted nervously away from his. All actions told, to his chagrin, that they already knew much more about him than he would have liked.

He sighed, knowing that the situation at his residence would indeed be a brewing pot for catastrophe—tense, at best. However, he had no idea how to amend the circumstances, and was not even sure if it was worth it to him to try.

As the carriage clattered down the cobblestone street, Erik turned his thoughts back to the situation at present. His sharp eyes scanned the neighborhood for any telltale movements—the flash of clothing, a slight shifting of shadows, the rustling of a bush.

Above the noise of the cab, his sensitive ears heard the sound of footsteps running up behind him, and he whirled around to find that Hale had emerged from his dark corner of the alley.

"There!" the agent cried, and quickly pointed across the street to two wraithlike shadows moving quickly along the iron gate of a residential garden in the direction of the cab. Both men sprang into action, chasing down the figures that, by now, realized they had been spotted.

The shadows broke into a frantic run, each splitting off into a different direction. One of them darted into the darkness of the alley, and Erik chose to pursue him, while Hale continued on after the other.

The masked man picked up his pace, now sprinting across the slick cobblestones in a full run, his hat flying from his head and into the dark street somewhere behind him. He turned into the damp, shadowed alleyway, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Erik slowed his pace to a quiet walk and listened for any out-of-place noises coming from the dark spaces between houses.

_There!_ A quiet sound came to him from the recess of one of the houses' side doors—the soft, gritty scrape of boots against the stones, accompanied by rapid breathing. Erik cautiously crept closer to the man's hiding spot, his hand slowly reaching under his cloak to grasp at the sturdy piece of rope that hung there. He inched his way along the wall and paused a moment at the edge of the doorframe, his heart wildly pounding against the confines of his chest in anticipation of what lay just beyond.

Finally, he leapt into the doorway, brandishing the lasso in his hands. In utter confusion, he glanced about the empty stoop and saw a stray black cat crouching in a corner, its back arched, hair standing on end as it hissed in protest of the intrusion. All of the air in his lungs rushed out, and he fell against the doorframe in frustration, trying to calm the frenzied spinning of his head caused by the adrenaline pulsing through his body. He forced his mind to focus on his hunt, back on other possible solutions to the man's disappearance.

Suddenly, a great force came down upon his back, sending him tumbling down the small stoop to the cold, grimy cobblestones. He quickly turned himself about as his attacker fell on top of him, the man's strong arms viciously coming down upon the hand that still held the lasso.

The man's position afforded Erik a brief chance to size up his opponent—the pale skin…a thin, firm mouth twisted with hatred…the murderous gleam in his eyes. He could not have been more than twenty-five, and yet was filled with pure rage and anger. And then the man's other hand came into view, and he saw that it brandished a dagger, gleaming in the moonlight.

Erik snarled viciously as the fury rose up inside of him, and with one powerful push, he managed to pull himself out from under his attacker's grasp. He then quickly pounced upon the bewildered man, effectively reversing their positions. Now the advantageous one, the angel from hell wrapped his long, deadly fingers around his prey's throat; his other hand grasped the young man's wrist, pinning him to the ground.

"Who are you?" Erik sharply questioned his victim, but the only response he received was a harsh Russian curse and stream of spit in his face. He released his grip on the man long enough to punch him soundly, his fist connecting so hard with the man's face that a stream of blood gushed from his nose.

"'Кто Вы?" Erik's voice was deathly cold as he repeated his question in Russian, and saw a flicker of surprise cross over his victim's face. The dark angel's mouth distorted into a sneer. "Oh yes, I speak your language very well, in more ways than one."

The ensnared man smirked back, his cruel words icy and mocking. "I have no doubt that you do. Perhaps you will understand this, then—if you kill me now, my only regret will be that I would not be there to see you place Madame de Chagny next to her husband in the cold, hard ground."

Flames of fury licked within the masked man, burning through all his tight reins of control. Tightening his grip on his victim's throat, he roughly kneed the man in the ribs, causing him to crumple in pain. He then seized the discarded dagger and swiftly sliced along the Russian's collarbone in the same manner the Comtesse had been injured. Grabbing a fistful of hair, the dark angel yanked the man's head back and pressed the blade to his throat.

"You shall not touch her," Erik hissed through clenched teeth, blind rage flashing heatedly in his eyes, fusing with the fear the Russian's malicious words had stirred.

The subdued man immediately saw his attacker's moment of weakness and took full advantage of it; in one swift movement, he spun out from under the man's grasp and flew at him, his fists flying as they tumbled to the ground. Somehow, in their vicious fight, the Russian managed to knock the mask from his opponent' face, causing him to drop the gleaming blade that he had brandished in his hand. Quickly bending to scoop it up, he raised his eyes in triumph.

All expressions of victory drained from the Russian's features, however, and were replaced by shock and horror as he beheld the face of the man that stood before him. He paused in disbelief, his mouth gaping in mute astonishment as the creature snarled with hatred.

The momentary distraction was all that the monster needed, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he whipped the rope about the other man's neck and pulled it taught, forcing his victim to his knees. The dark angel fixed him with an icy glare, his cold eyes snapping in bitter irony.

"Well, Monsieur, my strength could not overcome yours, but one look at my hideous face and you practically conceded to me," he cried wildly, his gruesome features gnarled and twisted in his madness. And then his mouth turned up grimly, and he let loose an unhinged, maniacal laugh.

"Of course, now that you have seen my wretched features, you must not be allowed to live. Have you any last words before I mercifully kill you?"

The Russian sneered back, his eyes defiantly meeting those of his murderer. "Yes, I do. Kiss the Comtesse goodbye for me, and pray that she does not open her eyes."

The loathsome creature turned his ugly face away from the man in mute dismissal, then quickly and expertly jerked the rope. The familiar sickening snap echoed throughout the alleyway.

­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

Erik fell to his knees, still breathing heavily from exertion. He gazed upon his hands, now red with the man's blood, and looked about him dazedly. What met his eyes was a grim sight; blood had indeed been scattered about the dark corner of the alley, some of it his, most of it the other man's. But no matter whose, when the light of morning came, it would be a dead giveaway that some sinister act had taken place during the night.

_Damn,_ he thought, cursing himself for the messy work; for in the past, his dealings had always been executed with quick and clean precision. This time, however, he had allowed his fury to break through his barricade of control. He sat back on his heels and silently contemplated the body before him.

And the blackness stirred once again—the feelings that always came after he killed…

_First the shock of what he had just committed. After the rage that sent his blood racing faded away, it left only his foggy brain, tingling with numbness behind his eyes._

_And then realization flooded over him. He had murdered. It was almost too much, this terrible knowledge that someone who had lived and breathed only moments before had struggled under his overpowering hands…and lost. _

_Then came the worst of it—the overwhelming blackness of mind that washed through him, overshadowing all other senses: despair, hatred, and detestation of the world and all that was in it. But most prominent was the self-loathing he harbored—a monster, a slaughterer that would rot in hell for his deeds. _

_And finally, after all the horror and revulsion that swept through him had taken hold of his mind, he would bury it away, never to be thought of again. And as he killed again and again, and again, it became easier to simply and conveniently detach from the horrors before him, to let an icy layer form a shield around his heart, so he wouldn't have to think…wouldn't have to feel…_

This time, however, the sweet oblivion of apathy did not come to him as it had in the past. For no matter how greatly he tried to shut away despair, Wretchedness still wrapped its corpse-like fingers about his throat, clutching at its prey with an unyielding grip.

_What has changed?_ Erik's mind searched frantically for a way to fight off the night that hovered about him, but struggled uselessly to extricate its icy, merciless hand from his soul.

_My soul…_

With a great moan, he buried his face in his bloody hands, at last understanding. Sticky red smeared across his face, branding him as a fool—a condemned, bloody fool. Of course he could no longer purge his soul of its darkness after the kill.

_My soul is no longer my own. Yesterday, I gave it to her when she pleaded with me for it. So now I belong to her…and am accountable to her…_

Erik heard heavy footsteps behind him. He quickly scooped up his mask and replaced it upon his mangled face, then cautiously pushed up off of the ground, slowly stretching his aching limbs. A sharp pain shot through his side, and he bent to examine the gash at his rib cage. The wound was not too deep, but it was obvious he had acquired a few bruised ribs during the tumble, which would be extremely painful over the next few days.

Erik took up the dead man's dagger and cut away a strip of lining from his wool cloak. He carefully wrapped the material around his torso, covering the knife wound with the temporary bandage, and winced as the cloth pressed against the gash.

Hale came up beside him and bent over, leaning on his knees to try and catch his breath. As he raised his head again, the agent's eyes swept over the dead man, momentarily stunned by the odd angle of the Russian's neck. Then he shook the haze from his mind and let a cool, unruffled demeanor fall into place. He watched as the masked man knelt to remove the rope from the body.

"What of the other?" Erik asked, his manner now also calm and composed.

"Escaped. Ran off in the opposite direction, though, so you needn't worry about him pursuing the carriage. Murry will be sure to take a round-about way to your town home, just to be safe. He'll know if anyone is following." Erik nodded absently in assent, his eyes still on the dead man before them. Hale cleared his throat.

"I suppose we should take care of this, then, before anyone happens upon it," the agent hinted, gesturing to the grisly scene.

"Isn't the Thames where most murdered men in London end up?" Erik simpered, raising his eyes to his cohort.

Hale was caught off guard by the disconcerting gleam her perceived there. Madness stared back, tempered by some unfathomable emotion…sadness, was it? Whatever it was, it chilled him to the core.

* * *

Two shadowy figures stood at the edge of the Thames, not far from the East India Docks. Not a soul was about at this time of night; all of the dockers that labored during the day, unloading crates from the Far East, had long since retired to their favorite pubs. The lingering smell of tea and spices still hung in the air, mingling with the putrid, foul stench emitted by the murky waters that flowed through the city.

Glancing about warily once again, the two men slowly lowered their burden to the edge of the pier and rolled it into the deep waters below. They stepped back, then solemnly gazed on as the weighted body sank beneath the surface and disappeared from sight.

After it was gone, the stood as silent sentinels of the docks, watching to make sure it did not resurface. An ominous silence hung about them, interrupted only by the gentle rumbling of the swift river.

"Tell me, Hale, do you have a wife?" Erik asked quietly.

Hale glanced up at the man, and with relief, saw that the mad gleam which had earlier resided there was no longer present. He shook his head sadly.

"No, Monsieur. It is a risk I am unwilling to take. Unfortunately, men like us cannot afford to love—the price is too great."

Erik said nothing, lost in sober contemplation as he continued to stare into the depths of the water. By now, the body had most certainly been carried away in the strong currents of the Thames.

After several minutes, the agent sighed and began to make his way across the grimy dockyard. "I don't think he's coming back up. Let's return home, shall we?"

"Yes..." the masked man whispered sadly, and turned to follow the agent. "Home."

**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website for some interesting story-related diddies. See my profile for details. Don't forget to sign the guest book, when you are there!


	14. To Turn Back Time

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Not even that dang horse sniff

**Side Notes:**

_Le Chat Noir – Again, another huge thank you for your help with the ballet research!_

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)_

**To Turn Back Time**

The house was as quiet as the grave; the only sound to be heard was the crackle and pop of the dying fire and the soft, cadenced ticking of the mantle clock in the library.

Erik leaned forward in the wingbacked chair, his fingers steepled against his lips in intense study. How long had he sat there, simply watching her? Minutes? Hours, perhaps? The fire he had stocked not that long ago had again burned to a dull glow, bathing her still, sleeping form in orange firelight.

Upon arriving home, he had immediately retired to his rooms to wash away the layer of grime from the incident in the alley, purging all evidence from his body of the horror he had just committed. His wounds cleaned and bandaged and fresh Indian silk nightclothes donned, he had grabbed up his black robe and quietly made his way down the dark hallway.

The Chagny household had long since found their rooms per his written instructions, and retired for the night before he had even returned from the docks. Therefore, the roam of the house had been his—or so he had thought. For when he entered the library, he had discovered that one person had waited for him to return, the lines of worry etched about her face emphasized by the soft glow from the fire…

_Christine's eyes flew up from her book in surprise as she heard the soft swish of his robes at the back of her chair. _

"_Erik!" she cried with relief, leaping up to fling her arms about him. He grasped her shoulders in the nick of time, preventing any further damage to his injured ribs. _

_Worry flooded back into her eyes as they flicked over his face and neck, noting the bruises and scratches scattered about his skin. _

"_What has happened?" she whispered fearfully. "Were you followed? Why have you taken so long to return?"_

_Still clutching at her shoulders, Erik raised a long finger to her lips to silence the stream of questions. _

"_Tomorrow, my dear child. We shall discuss everything in the morning. It is very late—perhaps you should retire for the night?" he cajoled, soothing away her anxiety. For at that moment, he wished for nothing more than to be alone in his wretchedness._

_The woman shook her head, not understanding his gentle hints. "I cannot sleep, so I think I shall stay up and read a bit." _

"_Very well; good night, then." Erik turned to leave the room, but froze mid-stride as she called to him._

"_Please stay—" she cried, her words rushing out. "You obviously came here for a purpose, so don't let my presence drive you away. Besides," the Comtesse said more softly, her eyes pleading with his. "I have missed the nights we used to spend in this manner, in your parlour in Paris…when you used to read to me…" she lowered her eyes under his scrutinizing gaze, her cheeks flushing slightly. _

"_Never mind," she murmured. "It was foolish—"_

"_What would you like me to read?" the man sighed in resignation. He stooped to pick up the slender book that she had discarded, every muscle aching in protest. His eyes glanced over the cover, and they sparked with amusement. "You were reading the _Rubáiyát_?"_

_The woman nodded innocently._

"_Christine, it is written in Persian." _

"_Well, I wasn't really reading it," the girl stammered in explanation, offended by his patronizing tone. "It was sitting on the little table next to the chair, and it had lovely pictures…what is it about, exactly?"_

_Erik's mouth twitched with enjoyment at the exchange. "It's an ancient book of poetry, mainly about wine and lovers. Of course, it has quite a bit of allegorical insight, as well." He settled himself into the great chair and motioned to the footstool at his feet. Christine took her place at his side and leaned her dark head lightly against the armrest. _

"_I shall read each passage in the original Persian, then translate it for you, if you like." The teacher glanced down at the top of his pupil's curly head, and at her slight nod, opened to the first page. He lightly cleared his throat and began reading. _

_Christine sighed with contentment as she listened to the smooth rhythms of the ancient language trip and flow from her angel's sensitive mouth. She closed her eyes and imagined herself in a warm land glowing in the bright mid-eastern sun, away from cold London and the terrors that it held. _

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: Nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it…"

"_Beautiful," the woman murmured, her eyelids heavy with sleep. "What does it mean?"_

_Erik painfully closed his eyes as the ancient Persian wisdom entered his heart. "It means that the past simply cannot be erased, no matter how hard we wish for it..."_

_He swallowed against the lump in his throat and ran his long, white fingers through her dark curls, lost in thought. The girl moved her head slightly under the gentle administrations of his hand, and rested her cheek against the smooth silk that covered his knee. The material was a flimsy barrier from the softness of her skin, and the warmth of her flushed face caused Erik to shift uncomfortably. _

"_Persia…" the girl murmured, her voice low and drowsy. "How lovely it would be to travel there. Perhaps when we leave London…"_

_Erik placed a finger gently under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his._

"_You understand, Christine," her angel said calmly, firmly, "that I must never return there, for reasons you know nothing of. Perhaps one of these days I shall tell you…"_

The man reclined into his chair, careful of his bruised midsection. He studied her sleeping form, disbelief still stirring in every bone of his body.

How many times had he imagined her like this, in his dreams? And now she was truly in front of him, living and breathing; not some ghostlike doppelganger that would disappear with the morning light.

Christine was stretched out upon the rug in front of the fireplace, having been lulled to sleep by his smooth voice. One hand was tucked neatly under her cheek; the other lazily extended out across the rug. The low fire burned and flickered behind her, illuminating the contours of her face in warm contrasts and shadows.

Then she stirred slightly and turned to lie on her back, an arm draped gracefully across her waist. Her chest rose and fell slowly, softly; his insides knotted with every inhale…exhale…

And Erik knew that he truly was lost.

Suddenly, he felt very old and tired. Weary of the killing, of the darkness…what was it that Nadir had said?

"_If you let the violent tempests of your past control you, you shall have no hope for the quiet water you so desperately seek…"_

_Mon Dieu, _he thought,_ I have lived too long in the past. If I am ever to have peace in this lifetime, these demons must be exorcised, once and for all. _

Sighing from weariness of body and mind, he cautiously knelt next to his sleeping protégé and slipped his arms under her limp form. Clutching her warm body to his chest, he rose again and slowly made his way from the library, careful of her limbs as he passed through the doorway. The man quietly moved through the dark house, down the hallways, until he came to her rooms. And as gently as possible, he placed the Comtesse on her bed, pulled a blanket about her, and inaudibly shut the door behind him.

_Tomorrow, _he firmly decided, _I must tell her everything—the killings in Persia, the murder last night. And by God, if she is not afraid after that, then I shall ask her to be my wife._

_Hale's warning be damned._

_

* * *

The young singer floundered about in the dank, murky waters, panic seizing hold of her mind. She frantically gathered up the ruined gauzy skirts of the wedding dress, stumbling closer to the porticullis. _

"_Raoul!" she cried, struggling towards the two men heatedly embroiled in a battle of wills; one with a noose around his neck, the other, holding the end of the rope. "Please, don't say another word—he will kill you!"_

_Her angel turned his cold, gleaming eyes upon her, his gruesome features further contorted in madness and rage. "Your confidence in me is touching, my dear," the man snarled viciously, "but your pathetic sniveling and weeping truly begin to try my patience! Your decision, Mademoiselle Daaé—a life with this loathsome monster before you, or the death of your beloved Vicomte?"_

_Christine closed her eyes in torment, vicious sobs wracking through her body. Paying no heed to the pleas from Raoul to flee, she slowly raised her face towards the heavens. _

"_Oh God," she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Give me courage…"_

The warm rays of the morning sun filtered in through the great bay window of the Comtesse's bedroom, chasing away the shadows of night and the nightmare that clung to them. A beam shone across her face; as her lids flew open from the blinding intrusion, she quickly raised a hand to shield the bright light from her drowsy, sensitive eyes.

The woman sat up with a start of confusion, then settled back down again as the vivid images gradually began to loose their hold on her. Still trembling from her dream, she pressed a shaky hand to her heart, trying to calm its rapid beating.

"_Raoul…" _she breathed, her dead husband's pleas still clinging to her ears. This dream had come to her many times before, especially in the black weeks after her Vicomte's death. But as time passed and the sting of grief began to fade away, the dreams had gone with it.

_It is no wonder that the nightmare has been resurrected_, she pondered, as the previous night's mysterious events and subsequent fear for Erik's safety trickled back to her fuzzy mind.

Ever so slowly, her unfamiliar surroundings came into focus. _Not in the opera house, but the town home…Erik's home…_

Yesterday evening, the entire house had been shrouded in shadows. Only the soft, flickering candlelight had offered any glimpse of their new residence—and what she had observed had not told her much. In the fresh morning light, however, she soaked in the lovely, tasteful furnishings of her boudoir.

The walls were done in a smooth, cream color, with a gorgeous blue-gray rug covering the length of the dark wood floor underneath. A light blue ornamental border had been stenciled around the upper perimeter of the room, enhancing its classic British charm. Full, dramatic silvery drapes covered the large windows, save for the one that had been pulled open to allow the sunlight to spill in.

_Papi must be up and about,_ Christine observed, glancing at the small brass clock above the mantle. She swung her feet around to the side of the dark mahogany sleigh bed and moved about the room, taking in its delicate, feminine touches. A cream-colored petite chair dressed with a chenille throw was placed next to the bay window.

According to Erik's note, the family that owned the house was currently residing in Tuscany until the summer's end, and had allowed their solicitor to lease the home in the meantime. That accounted for the peculiar dainty furnishings throughout the rooms, so unlike Erik, but extremely pleasing to herself.

She ran her fingers lightly over the rich blue of the wrap, then pulled it about her shoulders, enfolding herself in its newness. A mahogany dresser was placed in a corner behind the chair, topped by a large gilded mirror done in silver paint and accented with small gold stars. She peered at her reflection, then pulled back her wild curls and loosely plaited them down her neck. Tucking a few loose strands behind her ears, she smiled slightly, and turned to the wooden surface of the dresser, where an assortment of boxes and bottles were arranged, all new and carefully selected. Christine pulled the stopper from one of the bath oils and inhaled the sweet fragrance.

_Lavender…_

The woman smiled gently at the careful attention her angel had given to her comfort, causing her heart to ache with love for him. _So different from the man in my ghastly dream…_

But perhaps the most touching action of all was the fact that he had placed her son's room next to hers, separated by only a door, instead of secreting the small boy away in the nursery, as was the custom in most British and French households.

The mother quietly opened the door to Jean-Paul's room; satisfied that he was still lost in sleep, she grabbed up her dressing gown and pitter-pattered down the hallway to explore the rest of the house. She worked her way down the hall and through the next wing, sheepishly opening doors left and right. A small amount of trepidation tugged at her conscience—a feeling that she was somehow snooping in places that she should not. Common sense, however, told her it was perfectly fine to explore the lay of the house, since it was her home now, as well.

A heavy door at the end of the hallway opened onto a brightly carpeted staircase, leading up to the top floor. Christine picked up a small lamp from the table along the wall and made her way up the creaky stairs. She emerged into the tucked-away room and raised the lamp to glance about. Spotting several windows, she pulled back the rather dusty curtains until the entire room was bathed in light. A smile of delight lit her face at her discovery. Just as she had suspected—the nursery!

Colorful toys were scattered about the furniture, brimming from a green chest at the foot of the little wooden twin bed. Bright, cheerful tapestries depicting several nursery rhymes covered the walls. A miniature Noah's Ark, complete with giraffes, elephants, lions—even ordinary animals, like sheep and horses—was situated upon an area rug in the middle of the room. Just to the left, displayed prominently on a small table was an intricate puppet theatre, complete with a full cast of Punch and Judy characters. She laughed, and tugged at the rascally Mr. Punch's jester hat, jingling the little bells at the ends.

A bag of glass marbles sat upon the nightstand next to the bed, its contents spilling from the burlap and about the floor. Christine stooped over, plucked up each marble, placed them back into the bag, then pulled the string taught and knotted it. Standing on her toes, she shoved the marble bag onto the top shelf of the bookcase, out of reach from the prying fingers of her toddler. She glanced over the room to see if any other small, dangerous objects were scattered about; satisfied, she made her way down to the lower levels, making a mental note to show Jean-Paul the fairytale room right after breakfast.

Again, she wandered down the hallway, past Papi's and Norry's rooms, and into the west wing of the house. Opening more doors along the path, she was disappointed to discover that most of them were either empty or guest rooms. She tried another knob to her left and to her surprise, found that it would not budge. Jiggling the handle a bit, Christine puzzled over the locked door, then stepped away in embarrassment as she heard a gruff mumbling from the other side. With a start, she realized that the room must be Erik's, and was locked for a reason. She turned on her heels and fled down the stairs to the main floor, before the man caught her snooping about.

The Comtesse was now in familiar territory, having explored most of this level the previous evening in her search for the library. She walked past the library and study until she came to the room just beyond the parlour. In the darkness last night, and without the assistance of a lamp, she had been unable to decide exactly what purpose the large, vacant-sounding room served. Now that she had thrown back the heavy velvet drapes, she saw that the great empty space was, in fact, a small ballroom, complete with glossy wooden floors and a lovely grand piano.

With a giddy bounce to her step, she turned twice about the room, getting a good feel for the floor beneath her. Then scuttling to ease the door shut, she kicked away her slippers and moved over to the windowpane that faced the small garden behind the house. The girl drew up the hem of her thankfully loose nightgown, and in the absence of a ballet barre, eased her foot onto the window ledge to practice her turnout.

Pressing her palms against her thigh, the dancer concentrated on her stretches, patiently willing her muscles to follow her direction. Then she leaned back and arched her spine, her head held high. Madame Giry's stern instructions floated back to her from her years with the _corps de ballet_, as if the ballet mistress were standing right behind her.

_Posture, Christine Daaé, posture! Stretch upwards, as if a string is attached to the top of your head. Now pull yourself from the bottom of your feet and up through your spine, as if the string runs through your entire body…_

The girl slowly eased herself back to the ground again, her entire being refreshed, energy coursing through her loose limbs. She breathed deeply and turned to the center of the room to go through her _relève retire._

"You still dance, then?" came a soft voice from across the room, and Christine whirled around in surprise, quickly smoothing her nightgown down around her ankles and pulling her dressing robe more tightly about her waist.

"Yes," she managed to choke out, her face aflame in pure embarrassment. "After Jean-Paul was born, I continued with my dancing to tone my …" Her explanation fell away as she glanced up at her angel leaning against the doorframe, still in his silks and black robe from the night before. The white mask was, as always, firmly in place. His hair, however, was slightly tousled, and a shadow of stubble graced his jawline and chin, lending a rather rugged look that was such a sharp contrast to his usual clean-cut, pristine appearance. She lowered her eyes to the floor and studied her crooked dancer's toes; with another wave of mortification at her bare feet, she searched about the room for the location of her discarded slippers.

Erik eased away from the doorframe and moved stiffly towards the girl, his ribs painfully sore after his restless sleep. He chuckled softly at her innocent propriety and gently took her by the elbow, leading her towards the piano and away from her slippers at the door.

"Come now, Christine, we have seen each other in various stages of…informality before, and it has never bothered you," he coaxed. "However, I truly apologize for the intrusion. I heard somebody at my door, and I thought that perhaps I was needed." Releasing her arm, he moved over to the piano and slid back the lid from the ivory keys. He seated himself at the bench, straightened his back, then nodded to her to continue her exercises.

The girl hesitated slightly, but when the familiar, soothing melodies began to float about her, she moved over to the piano, laid her hand lightly on its edge, and went through her positions: first…second…third…, with a _demi-plié_ in each, adding a _battement tendu_ to the sequence as she could. As she felt her joints become more pliable and her balance more controlled, she moved to an _Échappé sur les demi pointes_, including a slight spring between the _demi-plié_ and her positions. When she reversed sides, her eyes briefly met her angel's. He smiled at her, and she allowed herself to relax as his beautiful music swirled about her.

Erik played no particular song, simply preferring to let his fingers glide over the keys as the music commanded him. A stanza or two in a soft, gentle pianissimo would suddenly crescendo to a desperate forte, his fingertips flying back and forth along the keyboard in a strange, turbulent dance. And then the pounding chords would again give way to the pianissimo, and his brow would knit in concentration as the sweet melody teased at his senses. Yet somehow, throughout the range of emotions expressed in each piece, the man still managed to keep some semblance of a steady tempo, in consideration of her strict ballet passages.

Christine closed her eyes as her angel's music washed through her, infusing her with the desired grace of movement. She eased into her _port de bras_, her arms sweeping about her elegantly, then arching above her head. She raised her poised neck in a perfect _ligne_, the sunlight from the window now shining upon her dark curls, warming her face in its brilliance. Slowly moving her arms from position to position, she was so focused on the meticulous passages that it took several minutes for her to recognize the familiar song.

_Elissa's aria from Hannibal. My aria, which I bravely sang for my teacher, all those years ago…_

Her eyes turned to the man at the piano, and she saw that his were locked on her every movement, the gold now dark and smoldering with some intensity far beyond her understanding. The dancer slowly relaxed her arms, letting them fall limply to her sides as his gaze drew her in. A single tear trickled down the man's face and his eyes closed in pain.

"'_There will never be a day'_…No truer words have been sung," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I have often thought of you like this, Christine; the sun streaming through your hair and gown, lighting your face." He smiled faintly, turning his gaze to the window. "Its rather amusing, that after all my curses against the daylight, I would remember you thus."

His eyes fell to hers again, the sparking intensity now returning. "I never believed that I would see you again, after that night I set you free. And I was quite resigned to it, I assure you," the man sighed. "Even when I placed that foolish message in the _Epoque_, I truly did not expect you to come; after all, you chose him. _Married_ him."

"Erik, I am sorry…" The girl held out a hand, not knowing quite how to respond to his confession.

He slowly rose from the piano and advanced towards her. "My actions were inexcusable—I do not even know what I would have done if you _had _come to me—" his voice broke as he stepped closer. "—but I wanted to see your face just _once more_."

Her teacher cautiously reached out and grasped her hand, searing her palm with his touch; a small cry escaped the woman's lips. Willing her locked knees into motion, she moved towards the man, closing the space between them. They collided in a flurry of passion, arms linking about each other, lips frantically searching for fulfillment, taking what they could.

Erik swung her around and pressed her back to the piano. She flung out a hand to brace herself at the sudden movement and hit several ivory keys, causing a dissonant, shrill chord to echo through the room. Her other arm impetuously went under his robe and circled his bruised ribs tightly, unknowingly sending shots of pain through his body.

Erik inhaled sharply and winced at the soreness, forcing his mind to push away the marked discomfort about his torso. He instead focused on the delicate sculpture of her shoulders under her thin, white nightgown, and nimbly ran his exquisite fingers along her long, balletic arms, tracing a line from her wrists to the curve of her neck.

Christine pressed her palms to his tear-streaked face, and pulled his lips back to hers. Her angel moaned softly into her mouth, kissing her as if he had waited a lifetime to do so, and could spend a lifetime doing nothing else but basking in the warm, healing sweetness of her lips. His passionate reaction startled her, and every cell in her body was suddenly awash with frightening sensations, threatening to completely and utterly overwhelm her. An involuntary shudder ran the length of her spine.

Erik unexpectedly felt his angel stiffen in his arms, and he gently pulled away to study her face. Placing two elegant fingertips under her chin, he raised her terrified eyes to meet the stormy gold of his.

"Are you yet afraid of me, Christine?" he breathed, his normally controlled voice trembling with unease and trepidation at his beloved's hesitancy.

The woman lowered her lids to the floor, her lashes brushing her flushed cheeks gracefully. "I…I don't know what you want of me, Erik," she whispered almost timidly, not daring to meet his eyes for fear of the cynicism she might see reflected there. But no derisive criticism followed her quiet admission, nor impatience at her childlike words.

His fingers gently tugged the blue ribbon at the bottom of her plaited locks. The bit of satin fluttered to the ground, and he ran his fingers through her hair, loosing the dark curls from the haphazard braid. The masked man carefully lowered his mouth to the girl's refined neck, now covered in a light, salty sheen from her focused ballet exercises. He breathed in her scent, reveling in the sound of her sighs; the tenseness slowly left her spine, and she once again relaxed in his embrace.

"What do I want of you, _mon ange_?" he murmured into the brown tresses spilling about his face. "I should think that rather obvious."

The dancer's eyes flew open at the insinuation of his low, husky words.

It was not that Christine de Chagny was unfamiliar with the art of lovemaking—far from it. Her husband, ever an intuitive man, had taught her the bliss of the marriage bed by patiently offering the marked attention that she needed, until her proficiency rivaled his own. And as she learned to understand the intricacies of her lover's senses—what moved him, and what did not—their marriage, though often ritualistic, was never boring.

_But Erik…_

Another wave of need swept through her, and she dug her nails into the taught flesh of his back, her mind torn between yearning and fear.

Her teacher had been the first to awaken any sort of desire in her young body. He had stirred feelings so terrible and passionate that they had been buried deep when she thought him dead, only to rise up in her dreams like wicked wraiths. And now, once again, she stood before this man, enfolded in his arms, as he asked her to give way to those dark desires that had haunted the innermost recesses of her mind for so long.

_Can I?...Do I dare?…_

A great crash resounded from the hallway, followed by a woman's cry of distress. Christine quickly broke away from her angel's arms and flew to the door to see what had caused such a ruckus. Papi was stooped over, one hand clutching a wrap about her; the other, gingerly picking up shards of glass scattered along the oriental rug that ran the length of the floor. She briefly glanced up at her observers, then continued with her work, spouting apologies.

"Oh Madame, Monsieur, I beg your pardon. Sometimes I am all clumsiness when I clean. You see, Jean-Paul is still asleep, so I thought I could get in a bit of housework…" The Comtesse nodded in sympathy and knelt beside her, helping to pick up the broken pieces of the oil lamp, secretly thankful that her decision could be postponed.

Erik's face was a grim study as he watched the two at work. He had the distinct feeling that the servant's words did not, somehow, ring true. Christine, however, would not see it, so instead he bit his tongue and made his excuses, his irritation at the disturbance thinly veiled.

"Christine, I shall go make myself more presentable, and return in half an hour to continue our…discussion. Perhaps you would wish to do the same?" She nodded in assent, then offered him an apologetic smile, leading him to suspect that she may have understood the servant's motives, after all.

The man swiftly retreated down the hallway and up the stairs. Papi paused in her administrations to the rug as she listened for heavy footfalls on the floor above them, then sighed with relief as she heard a door slam shut. She removed her apron and hurriedly tossed the bits of glass into it. Jumping up from the floor, she then grabbed her startled mistress's hand and pulled her into the vacated ballroom, shutting the door securely behind them.

"I beg your forgiveness for the abruptness, my Lady, but we don't have much time. There is something you must see!"

"Papi, what—" the Comtesse began, but her words failed as the maid flipped away the light throw rug that had rested over her arm, revealing the object concealed underneath. Christine stared in utter disbelief at the thing, her face blanching in horror at the grisly discovery. She slowly backed away from the maid until her back hit the hard wood of the piano, then sank onto the bench as her knees failed her.

"Where did you find this, Papi?" the girl whispered hoarsely.

"His room." The maid's eyes met her mistress', and her heart ached for the pain she was causing the poor widow. "I'm sorry to show this to you, Madame. It is one thing to accept his help and protection, but another to…" she glanced down in embarrassment, not wanting to overstep the boundaries of her servanthood. "I just didn't want to see you throw everything away for this sort of man. And so soon after the Comte…"

Christine's stony gaze rose to meet her friend's, its effects chilling the maid to the core. "Thank you, Papi, but I believe I can make my own decisions." With a curt nod she dismissed the woman from the room, then lowered her face to the black and white keys, and wept.

* * *

Erik quickly turned from his ghastly reflection and deftly ran the blade over his chin, careful of the small crevices of his mangled flesh. Years of shaving without the aid of a mirror made him loath to use one now, even if it rested just over the porcelain sink in the small bathroom connected to his rooms. Splashing water over his bare face, he picked up the fresh, white towel from the hook and patted his chin and neck dry, then ran a palm over his smooth skin. 

Again avoiding the mirror, he swiftly scooped up his white mask and replaced it, then moved into his bedroom to finish dressing. Some odd little detail stewed in the back of his mind and he paused, forcing it to come to the surface.

_The fresh towels…they were not here before, which means that someone has been in my rooms!_

The masked man growled in aggravation as he made a cursory sweep of his possessions, checking that everything was hidden away or in its place. Thankfully, he saw that his torn, bloody clothing from the previous night was still safely concealed under the bed, where he had kicked it last night in his haste make for the library.

Erik gingerly lowered himself to the edge of the bed, then leaned over and picked up the small gold ring from the nightstand. He pressed it into his palm and mechanically traced the small imprinted circle it left, his thoughts with the woman that had worn the ring, however briefly.

Just moments ago, he had come so close to having her completely. Would he have gone through with it, after seeing the fear and trepidation in her eyes? He shook his head, already knowing the answer. A not so distant conversation rose up in his memory; words the Persian had spoken the night he had stumbled into the Phantom's lair, finding him consumed with the ravages of fever…

"_I won't drag Christine back into my dark world, Nadir. She feared it before, and she would again; it is best not to repeat the mistakes of the past." _

_The Persian's eyes bore down upon his friend's. _

"_Perhaps you should have faith that the girl can look beyond your past in Persia. Or has it not yet occurred to you that both you and Christine are the source of the other's redemption?"_

Erik studied the bit of gold in silent deliberation.

_My redemption…_

Could he once again lay everything at her feet and trust her to accept his offering, as Nadir had suggested? The Persian had accused him of being afraid—yes, perhaps he was, but there was no turning back now. She already owned his soul. What else could possibly be left to give, but the rest of himself?

He glanced up at the clock on his mantle, and saw that he was supposed to return to Christine in two minutes. Clutching the ring in his fist, he stood firm in his resolution, and crossed the room in confidence, at last understanding what needed to be done.

_No…this time, there will be no violent threats, no betrayals, no men in nooses. I shall do this correctly: openly and honestly ask for her love. Ask her to share my lonely life with me, for anything short of that won't do. And if she needs the reassurance of my wedding ring, I will gladly give it to her. _

* * *

Erik strode into the ballroom, his silk nightclothes now exchanged for a snowy white shirt, brocaded vest, and crisp slacks. He spotted Christine seated at the piano, her back to the door, staring out the window into the garden in deep contemplation. She was still clad in her white dressing gown, the blue chenille wrap thrown over her shoulders; apparently, she had not left the room after their unfortunate interruption. 

He walked over to the woman, one hand resting behind his back, clasping the precious gold band in his fist. The other reached out to his beloved, and he ran a thin, seductive finger up her spine, a gesture that recently he had grown rather fond of using. She shuddered under his touch, but this time, did not fly to his arms as he had expected. With sudden consternation, he stepped back to silently observe the girl; how she sighed tremulously, leaned her head upon her hand with weariness.

_She has been crying,_ the man realized with a start, and promptly seated himself next to her at the piano bench. He cupped her face in his palm, his thumb brushing away the remnants of tears on her cheeks. Then leaned forward to gently press his forehead to hers, willing her troubles away. Her lips parted slightly, and she slowly exhaled in submission under his soft touch.

The Comtesse startled from her reverie and she ducked out of the comforting warmth of his hands, shaking away the sleepy contentment that had begun to cloud her brain.

"What happened last night, Erik?"

The man paled at the sudden words, and he tried to search her downcast eyes for answers to her unspoken questions. His shoulders sagged resignedly, knowing with certainty that now was the time to tell her of his past, and pray that she would understand. The proposal would have to wait for a bit.

"Look at me, Christine," he whispered, but her eyes remained down. Erik carefully gripped her face between elegant, firm fingers, and forced her to look upon him.

"In Paris," he whispered fervently, "when you said that you were in love with me, did you mean it?" He absently toyed with the gold ring, still tucked away in his left palm.

"Oh yes," his beloved angel murmured, her eyes sad. "I never ceased to. So much so, that it is easy to forget…that you are a…" The girl's gaze fell to the floor, and for the first time, Erik saw the length of rope coiled in her lap, resting there like a lazy serpent content with its previous night's hunting, marked with the dried blood of its prey.

_The Punjab lasso, taken from my room… _

The masked man suddenly stiffened, his fingers tightening about his angel's jaw. Christine's eyes widened in fear as his face darkened at her unspoken accusation, his fury rigidly controlled. Tears of dread began to flow freely down her cheeks, wetting the man's fingers.

"Forget what, my dear? That your lover is a _murderer_?" he said ominously, releasing his grip on her face and jumping up from the bench. Clasping his hands behind him, he paced back and forth in front of the ashen woman, his eyes watching every slight movement.

"I suppose," the man hissed, "it has been much easier for you to just _make believe_ that I didn't kill Buquet, Piangi, Philippe—"

"_Mon Dieu_, no!" Christine cried abruptly, her mouth agape in shock. "Not Philippe—not _Raoul's brother!_ His death was an accident, Erik—it had to be. Say no more, I beg of you!" The girl's face sank into the keys of the piano, her piteous sobbing echoing through the empty room.

Her angel, however, only scoffed at her sniveling. "Of course you don't want to hear the sordid details of my past, what I truly am! But perhaps it is time youknew the truth—that I have killed _so many more. _Seventy, perhaps a_ hundred_—"

"—Erik, please, I _don't want to know_!" The girl reached out to her angel in desperation, before he could utter any other secrets. "Let us go on like we always have, _as before_; pretend these words were never spoken!"

The man unsympathetically shook her hand away and turned, the sting of her words wounding him to the core. His heart ached painfully with loss as his carefully crafted fairytale tumbled about him, and reality once again seeped into his veins. _Faith? Faith that she would not be afraid, that she could save me?_ _How could I have been so wrong, so foolish, yet again…_

Erik swung about and grasped the girl's wrist, pulling her to her feet. The coiled lasso slid to the floor.

"What if I told you that the man escaped last night, that I didn't execute him in cold blood? Would you believe me?" His strong arm went around her waist and he roughly clasped her to him, his warm breath menacingly close to her face, his eyes slit like a snake's, ready to strike.

"Would you?" he hissed again, and Christine wordlessly nodded, turning her tear-streaked, puffy face from the fury just inches away.

"Lies! Do not play games with me, Madame," he whispered harshly. "You _know_ very well what I am capable of—that is why you sought my protection to begin with." He pushed her away from him and she stumbled back, her wobbly legs failing. Through a haze of wretched weeping, she watched as her angel spun away from her, jammed some small thing into his pocket, and once more seated himself at the piano.

"As before; very well then, if that is what you wish. Your love is such a fickle, flimsy thing, anyway." the teacher spat hurtfully. "You wish to ignore all that has happened? So be it, child; we will continue on _as before_. Before your marriage, before _Don Juan Triumphant_, even before I pulled you through that damned mirror." Her teacher placed his bony hands upon the keys, his fingers trembling with controlled rage.

"Now, shall we reclaim your lost muse? Sing for me."

The wide-eyed, hysterical girl mutely shook her head.

"**_Sing!_**" he bellowed, sending his protégé stumbling back in fright.

"Erik, I cannot!" she cried, covering her face with her hands, her entire body shaking as giant sobs wracked through her slight frame.

The masked man sighed in acquiescence and stared down at the ivory keys for several minutes, listening to the shuddery gasps of the woman on the floor, just beyond the piano. His eyes narrowed in concentration on some unknown point on the keyboard, and ever so slowly, his breathing returned to normal. At last, he turned dark, tortured eyes to the broken woman at his feet, his words low and wretched.

"Damn you, Christine Daaé, for making me love you. I _rue_ the day I gave you your voice."

* * *

Papi stared at the blank sheet of paper before her, grimly listening to the soft weeping coming from the Comtesse's bedroom. Her mistress had been in there most of the day, only emerging once to take Jean-Paul up to the nursery for several hours. The maid had found her there, huddled on the small wooden bed, faintly watching her little son play with the white, plush horse on the area rug. 

A small feeling of guilt stirred up inside of the woman, but she quickly pushed it back. No, she had done the right thing by showing the bloody rope to the Comtesse, making her see the truth behind her daydreams of her "angel."

And that man, that horrid man, had locked himself away in the ballroom, pounding out his anger on the piano, sending the most frightful music echoing throughout the house. Even as dusk faded into night, the dissonant chords still seeped under the doors, through the walls, drenching the entire house with his bitter resentment.

The maid pounded her fist in frustration at the whole situation—not even a day in their new residence! She had tried to speak with her father about the happenings inside the house, but he had simply shaken his head, grumbled that it was not their place to interfere in the matter, and continued to clear away the bare, tangled branches in the wintry garden. So that left only one alternative.

Picking up the pen with renewed resolution, she began her letter:

_M. Henri David, Avocat_

_2 Rue Pied nu, Place du Lépine, Paris_

_Dear Monsieur,_

_Forgive my writing to you, but I must beg for your assistance. If you loved Raoul de Chagny as I did, you will come to us in London as soon as possible, for his widow needs your help. Noël is not four weeks away, and could serve as an acceptable excuse for your visit. Pray that you will arrive by then. The address is as follows…_

**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	15. The Price of Admission

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

**Side Notes:**

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)_

**The Price of Admission**

The man's fingers pounded mercilessly upon the ivory keys in a stormy downpour; brutal music poured from his being into the piano, flooded the room, and spilled into the hallway. There was nothing tender or kind about the notes, for these are the things of which nightmares are made—fury, hatred, despair, death. The composer's face was beaded with drops of frustration, his brow nit in deep lines as his demanding master took hold of him, commanding every movement from his body.

Oh yes, it would have been so simple blame those that had injured him:

That foolish maid, Papi, whose wary eyes and resentful nature had driven her to nose around his room for clues to his character.

Or Nadir Khan, the misguided daroga of Mazanderan, who had imprudently placed his faith in a murderous friend only to be abandoned to the Shah's wrath. Why had Erik followed the Persian's advice to go to London and accept Christine's love, when the man's own blind faith in others had caused him to waste away for years in a horrid prison?

Raoul de Chagny—how he could hate this youth, place the fault for his botched overtures to Christine squarely on the dead man's shoulders. _That boy _had always been there before him, rescuing her red scarf from the ocean, winning her love with his youthful fervor and handsome smile. Raoul had taken her as his wife and had given her all the things that Erik longed to—a home, friendship, passion and pleasure, even a child. Even though the boy was in his grave, his memory still held the young widow in a firm embrace; her angel had not been blind to her tears during the funeral scene at the Royal Albert Hall, the flashes of grief that passed over her face when she thought he did not watch her. And when Erik had held her in his arms; Raoul had been there in the back of Christine's mind, even as she stiffly returned the embrace of another.

_Christine…_that wicked, beautiful name was eternally burned into his flesh. Dear God, how close he had come to touching that ever-waking fantasy of having her at his side, his loneliness driven away by the mere sight of her drowsy figure glowing in the soft morning light, next to him, loving him.

The notes rose to dizzying heights, toppled back to the ground, then built up again, chord by jarring chord. The music pulsed through his veins until his fingertips were worn and his bruised ribs were numbed.

_I have done all I can do! _Erik's tortured mind raced through his actions of the past weeks: he had bled for her, killed for her, then soothed away her fears so she could sleep peacefully, knowing that there was one who guarded her with his very life.

_And how has she repaid my attentions? By trembling with fright when I showed her just a mere fraction of my passion for her! By refusing to release me from the devils of my past, yet condemning me for the blood that stains my hands! Damn her and her naïve fear of death, darkness, and the ugly things of this world…_

_Damn myself for believing that I was worthy of a life with her, when all I am fit for is the cruel, lonely fate to which I am destined. _

The man's hands stilled on the keys as the uncluttered truth settled into his abused body. He could hate her, spit upon her name, curse her until the day he died, but he could not_ blame_ her, when he was just as guilty as she. All of the warning signs had been there—even in Paris, while deathly ill with fever and delirium, he had known that their sad story would play out as it had before. He had told Nadir that the first time he tightened the lasso around someone's neck, she would reject him.

Yet he had foolishly charged forth like the proverbial warrior, his black standard of death raised high. And having slain the dragon with that blood-covered lasso, he had returned to his fortress, soul-sick and battle-weary, longing for the blissful embrace of his angel's arms. Only instead of peace, he found his very dwelling under siege, held hostage by the mutinous specters of his past.

Hour after hour, music commanded him. The pianist's torso twisted and writhed about as his arms swept back and forth, exertion soaking his wounded back with sweat and blood, causing such excruciating pain in his bruised ribs that eventually his brain shut it away, converting the searing waves to a dull throb.

Erik now understood that the demons would always be there, clawing, pulling him back to the slaughter of the dismal battlefield. He would never be allowed to cross that black chasm that lay between him and his beloved angel's plain of light.

_The Persian was right when he said that Christine stood at the gates of Hell, unaware of the fire licking at her heels. But he had been wrong as well. _

_For Orpheus was not meant to guide Eurydice along the paths of Hades, back to world of the living. Eurydice must be the one to lead the way through the darkness, out of the remains of my shattered life…_

…_and sadly, she just does not have the strength to do so. Christine and I…we are forever doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past. Our souls have been entwined since the beginning of time, yet one is damned to hell, the other abides in the peace of Elysia. _

_By wearing my ring, she would shackle herself to a murderous criminal—a hideous monster. _

Erik's fists came down mercilessly upon the keys; the last chord of his frightful composition shuddered about the room and faded into the walls.

_Never, never again will I fall so far as to make such a grave mistake! _

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The composer pushed away from the piano with a last burst of energy, his entire reserve now spent. As the passion of the music drained from his languid body, the throb of his injuries flooded back, leaving him aching and worn to the bone. A blinding pain ripped through the entire left side of his rib cage, and he gingerly examined the reopened knife wound.

"_Merde!_" he hissed as the gash twinged again, and he clasped his side until the wave subsided, blood rapidly seeping through his sweat-soaked shirt.

A small gasp sounded behind him. Startled by the intrusion, Erik whirled around to behold the young Comte de Chagny standing in the ballroom doorway, the very image of the woman that had just haunted his music and his mind for countless hours. The child's dark ringlets curled in wisps about his forehead, emphasizing the paleness of his face. One hand tugged uncomfortably at his rumpled blue sailor tunic, the other clasped the plush toy "César" horse to his tiny frame. His quick, intelligent blue eyes were wide with astonishment as they darted from the instrument to the artist, awed by the strange, dissonant chords that had just thundered in the air.

Erik forced his angry, pulsing blood to slow as he studied the boy.

_Not even a trace of fright,_ he noted with surprise; _only…wonder. How could this child possibly be Raoul de Chagny's? For the Comte was a man who never had the capacity to truly love music. Why, there is not even a hint of the Chagny lineage about this boy, save for that ridiculous sailor suit his mother has forced him to wear. Oh yes, Christine was right—her son is destined to be a musician…_

And just as quickly as the surprise had arisen, the masked man pushed it back. No, it would not do to become attached to Jean-Paul, for after the revelations of this morning, his _Maman_ would be sure to keep her little son away from a killer. Erik wearily rose to face the boy.

"What is it you want, child?" he asked sharply. Jean-Paul's eyes widened further, and he pulled the small, white horse more tightly to him. The boy wavered in the doorway, unsure of whether to move closer to the man or turn and flee.

Erik sighed and turned a stony glare upon the little Comte de Chagny. "If you don't want anything," he said icily, "then I suggest you leave. I have no desire to be gawked at by a two-year-old." He watched as the child sucked in a trembling lower lip, a gesture so like Christine's, and slowly backed away from the room.

"Now!" he scolded, and the child scrambled down the hallway.

_No doubt to keep his mother company in her tears, _Erik thought dryly, his harsh manner with the boy secretly twinging his conscience with guilt. A new composition, however, began to take hold, and he forced his much-abused body back to the piano, a slave to the torrent of music that poured forth from his soul.

* * *

Christine lay awake in her bed, listening to the anguish-ridden chords. She buried her face in her pillow; the tears that had once trickled from her eyes and soaked the soft blankets had long ago run dry. Her heart ached as her angel's wretched music slammed against the walls of her head, shattering any remaining illusions she still held about the man.

_Angel…_

_How should a woman react when the blinds are stripped from her eyes and she is forced to see what she did not want to—that he who she loves best…_

…_is a murderer?_

Oh, she had known it before—Erik had been correct about that. Yet it had been so effortless to leave the opera murders behind; to write them off as semi-accidents or temporary madness and bury them deep in her subconscious, never to be remembered except in fleeting thoughts of the past. _But a hundred…_

_A hundred people. People that had thought, felt, laughed, loved…_

_A hundred living and breathing souls—some of them deserving death, some of them not—but souls, nonetheless. _

The horror of Erik's confession again clutched hold of her insides and another violent wave of nausea swept through her body. Christine groaned in pain and rolled off her bed onto the cold floor, her hands grappling for the metal basin. Pulling herself onto her knees, she crouched over the basin, retching and heaving for several minutes until there was nothing left in her stomach.

Weak and shaking from the exertion, the girl pressed her cheek to the cool wooden boards and listened pathetically as her spurned lover played on.

A deep longing suddenly welled within her, a pain that she had tried to push back for the sake of her son as well as her sanity. _Raoul…_ she desperately wanted his strong arms about her now, to hear him whisper in her ear a promise that all hope was not lost. How she needed his level head and steady arms to guide her through this chaos, shield her from the horrid, cold realities of life.

_But Raoul is not here, and now you have no one to turn to…not even your angel_. She again lowered her face to the ground in self-deprecation.

_Well done, Christine. _

The frantic notes continued well into the early hours of the morning until, at last, the final melody trickled into nothingness. Apparently the musician was sated. When she rose from the floor several hours later to greet the wintry light of day, her fallen angel was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Days passed, and the Comtesse saw nothing of the masked man. Oh, he was still about—she was sure of it—for now and again, soft footsteps would float to her ear, or a door would open and close. And once, late at night, hushed voices were heard in the library. The woman knew that every-so-often, one of Erik's _Sûreté _agents would visit to talk about developments in their investigation of the_ Narodnaya Volya_. Hope running through her veins, she slept peacefully that night knowing that in the morning, Erik would come to tell her of the midnight meeting.

She did not see him the next day, however, or the following three after that. As day after day flew by, she almost began to believe that he had not come to London at all! Several times she had knocked at his door, only to be met by silence—not even a slight shuffle of surprise from within the room.

_How strange_, she reflected,_ that no papers rustle, or chairs creak._

An idea unexpectedly began to take shape: perhaps Erik had resumed his prior ghostlike tendency to work throughout the night then rest during the day, and that was why she had seen nothing of him…

Deciding to test her theory, Christine rose late that night after the rest of the household was asleep. Throwing her blue wrap over her shoulders, she quietly made her way through the black halls, carefully listening for signs of life. A warm, yellow strip of light seeped under the study door and into the dark passage before her; sure enough, the scratching of an ink pen could be heard from within the room. Certain that her angel was indeed still a resident of the town home (and of London), she slowly made her way towards the door.

A slight movement in the corner of her vision sent her whirling around, gasping in shock. A pale, startled face peered back; her own silly reflection in the hall mirror! Relief filtered through her body as she laughed nervously at her jitteriness.

The scratching pen stilled, and the quiet squeak of someone rising from a wooden chair sounded in the charged air. Christine stepped back from the door, uncertain of whether to knock and formally announce her presence—which she was sure Erik was already aware of—or press her back to the wall and wait for the door to gradually creak open. Thus, she remained where she was, watching with anticipation as two shadows streaked the light that glowed on the polished floor.

_He is there, just on the other side of this wooden barrier. All I have to do is reach out and grasp the knob, rap my knuckles against the door, and he will answer. Then all will be right again…_

The woman took a tremulous step forward and lightly pressed her fingertips to the grain of the wood; she held them there for a moment, wavering with indecision.

_A hundred people…_

An almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips; gently, her fingers brushed down the door, her hand falling back to her side.

At that moment, she loathed herself for what she had become.

How she had wanted to believe she was a stronger, wiser woman than the naïve girl of four years ago, that she could stand on her own two feet after Raoul's death and make decisions for herself and for her son. Yet in the course of a month, ever since she had descended into the dark labyrinth of the _Opéra Populaire_, she had been reduced to a sniveling mess of a woman. Now she was standing outside the door of a confessed killer in the middle of the night, again trembling with fear.

_And continuing to stand here, for that matter,_ she chided, _debating whether to even knock. Anyone with a lick of common sense would have turned around and marched back through the hallway, roused their child and hailed the nearest hansom cab. _

_But when one loves, common sense is often excused._

_And when the killer is not a killer, but Erik…_

Christine raised her fist decisively and rapped loudly upon the door. If her angel needed her to listen to him, then listen she must.

And she watched, stunned, as the shadowy figure retreated from the door and the light seeping into the hallway vanished, leaving her dejected. Alone. In the dark.

* * *

"Madame?" Papi called over her shoulder as she whisked another egg into the pudding mixture.

Frustrating thoughts swirled about the Comtesse's mind as she angrily kneaded the dough, sending puffs of flour flurrying about the kitchen and settling onto her apron, hair, and cheeks. Why shouldn't she be upset? After all, _Noël _was but two short days away, and there was still a Yule log to prepare, a Nativity _crèche _and other decorations to find, not to mention shopping for a few small gifts for Jean-Paul and the rest of the household. How was she to accomplish any of that, though, when no one was allowed to leave the house? When any extra items, other than the pantry stuffs regularly delivered, could only be acquired by submitting a list to Hale or Murray? And seeing as how Erik was the only one who conversed with them, and he had neither seen nor spoken to her since that day three weeks ago in the library…

_Noël _festivities, therefore, were rapidly becoming a lost cause.

She tried to blow an irritating strand of hair from her face, gave in, and brushed it back with her messy, paste-coated hand.

"Madame?" the voice called again, and Christine broke from her angry musings to turn to the maid.

"I'm sorry, Papi, what was that?" she asked apologetically.

Papi sighed at her mistress' absentmindedness and pointed to the container of sugar on the table. "If you would, please sift the sugar into the pudding while I stir. If we are to finish the Bakewell before the evening meal, we'll have to work a bit more swiftly." The maid watched as Christine quickly grabbed up the sifter, accidentally knocking two eggs from the table in the process. The frazzled girl gasped, then frantically searched about the kitchen for something to clean up the mess.

The woman really could not be put out by the Comtesse's attempts in the kitchen, even though her efforts had actually doubled Papi's workload. Her mistress had little to no experience with baking, cooking, cleaning, all the things that she herself had been taught from birth. But the lady's heart was in the right place, and she desperately wanted to be of some use about the house; so instead of sending the girl away, Papi patiently allowed her to help in the kitchen, correcting her work when she wasn't looking.

"Never mind the eggs, Madame. I will take care of those. There _is_ something that needs to be done, however." Papi kept her eyes lowered to the Bakewell pudding, not quite daring to meet the other woman's gaze. "If we are to have a proper _Noël réveillon_, then we will need a few more things that aren't delivered by the grocers."

Christine nodded in assent, understanding the maid's unspoken request. "Don't concern yourself with it, Papi; you can give your list to me and I shall speak with him. Or try to, anyway." For whether he would actually admit her long enough to give him the list was the true question.

"Oh, my Butterfly! What smells so delicious in here?" The back door flew open and old Norry tramped in, ducking through the doorway as a squealing Jean-Paul clung to the burly man's shoulders. He swung the laughing toddler down and gathered up his daughter in a great hug. "Enough to drive a man half-crazy with hunger, whatever it is." He turned towards the oven and spotted the Comtesse in the kitchen as well, covered from head to toe with flour and some sort of white paste.

"Oh," the caretaker ducked sheepishly. "Beg your pardon, Madame. Didn't expect to see you in here." Christine smiled a self-conscious greeting and tried to brush the flour from her dress, but she only succeeded in making a further mess. Her little son flung his arms about her legs, also coating his green tunic with flour. Sighing, she picked up the boy with her messy hands, kissed his cheek, then planted him on one of the table chairs. The old man glanced away, his kind nature not wishing to further her muddled state.

And then an idea came to her—_Norry! He is a good, honest man, someone that Erik might listen to…_

"Norry, I have a slight favor to ask of you," she began apprehensively, turning back to the dough on the table. "Could you please take a household list to Erik? I believe he may be in the study, but as you can see, I'm rather tied up at the moment." She held up her flour-covered hands as proof of her predicament.

Her words were spoken offhandedly, but her eyes betrayed her. They pleaded with the old man for help in her desperate plight, and he could hardly refuse, though his greatest desire was to steer clear of any and all involvement in the personal affairs of the Comtesse and this reclusive masked man.

"Very well, Madame," he sighed in resignation, "but I'll just leave this with him—nothing else." He took the piece of paper from her proffered hand and turned to leave.

"Norry," Christine called softly, and the man turned again. "Tell me if he is unwell, please? That is all you need do."

* * *

Erik tossed another log onto the waning fire, stirred it to life, then gingerly folded his long, still-bruised frame into the study's desk chair. Drawing the piece of paper from his vest pocket, he unfolded the missive just delivered by Hale—the Persian's reply to his letter sent not three weeks ago. Again, he read over Nadir's irritatingly small handwriting:

As-Salaam Alaikum_, my friend,_

_I am glad to hear that you are still living and safe after the occurrence in Kensington; your particular method, incidentally, is now discussed in every quarter of the agency in Paris, as well as London. I should also warn you that Raoul de Chagny's sisters are beside themselves at the disappearance of the young Comte and his mother, and have been crying words like "foul" and "kidnapping" about Paris. M. David has tried to tell them that their family is safe, but still they threaten to take control of the estate if Christine does not return soon. The _avocat_ has assured me that these threats are hollow, however, since there are several who can vouch that both mother and son are alive and well._

_At last, I have found an answer to your question regarding the entry in Christine de Chagny's bank ledger. My sources tell me that this is a false name for a certain former _People's Will_ radical who testified against the chief revolutionaries during the _Trial of the Fourteen_. Thus, one man crippled the entire organization. Needless to say, he has completely disappeared from the earth and probably has no intention of resurfacing again. _

_How Raoul de Chagny was connected to him, or why the Comte gave him money, is unknown. I believe that the only man who can tell us that is the revolutionary himself. The _Sûreté_, however, has informed me of his general whereabouts, so I shall relocate the Comtesse and her household to this particular city and continue the investigation from there._

_Now, in regards to the above matter. You must know that your letter has caught me off guard, but then you have always had a flair for the dramatic, _du stæm_. I believe that you are correct in moving the Chagny family to this certain region. However, after our conversation at M. David's, I cannot understand why you wish me to journey on with Madame de Chagny while you continue my work in Paris. Hale, however, has steadfastly assured me that this is what you desire, so I shall question you no further. _

_I will give you more thorough explanations for all of the above when I arrive. I am currently making the necessary arrangements for the relocation, and look forward to joining you on the 27th day of December. And while you and I do not celebrate this holiday, my friend, I am sure that the rest of your household does, and is making preparations for their festivities. _

_So I wish you a _Joyeux Noël,_ and many blessings upon your house._

_Nadir Khan_

Erik studied the letter once more, then refolded the paper and tucked it into his vest. He leaned back in his chair and silently reflected on the Persian's words.

_So it is done, then. I shall leave her in the daroga's capable hands and once again help her from afar; unfortunately, it now appears, M. David will be assisting me in Paris._ Erik grimaced at the thought of again dealing with the buffoon._ Nevertheless, it is best this way_.

As he quietly pondered over Nadir's words, another unbidden image surfaced in his mind…

_His angel stands on a rooftop, gazing out over a city glowing in the orange light of dawn._ _Her face is no longer pale and drawn, but kissed by the sun; her crisp, white clothing loosely billows about her bare ankles as she slowly moves along the rail. The morning breeze gently whips about her dark curls…she tilts her face, ever so slightly, to let the warm rays fall upon her, breathing in the exotic, spicy air._

_This is how I shall think of her, when I have returned to Paris. But not now, not yet…_

Turning back to the task at hand, the man reached across the desk, pulled out the Chagny bank ledger, and flipped the pages until he came to the particular entry he had sought information for:

_500,000 francs, paid in full to Sergei Dagaev: transfer to _Doveritelny i Investitsionny Bank, _St. Petersburg, Russia_

Then he turned back several pages to another odd entry, one of many within the ledger:

_20,000 francs, paid in full to C. Daaé: transfer to _Ceska Obchodni Banka_, Praha, Bohemia_

Erik skimmed page after page, unconsciously tapping each out-of-place entry. _Why would that boy transfer money to an account in his wife's maiden name, and with such frequency?_ Unfortunately, Christine was probably the only one who could answer this question. And this meant that he would have to speak with her.

An abrupt knock sounded at the door, sending him spinning around in surprise. Another sharp pain shot through his side and he clenched his teeth, cursing the knife wound that would not seem to heal.

"Monsieur, I have a small matter I must speak to you about," the deep, gruff voice called from the other side. Erik sighed with relief when he realized that it was not the Comtesse begging entry to his study. He had had no desire to speak with her since the night she had wandered the hallways, wavering so pathetically outside his door.

"Enter," he clipped, admitting the old caretaker to the room. The masked man lifted his face from the ledger to observe the servant hovering in the doorway. "What is it that you want, M. Nitote?"

Norry cautiously stepped into the room, peering about as if expecting someone to leap out from behind the door. "Beg your pardon, Monsieur, but the Comtesse asked me to give this to you." He shuffled forward and held out the slip of paper to the man. Erik, however, made no move to take it, so he carefully laid it on the edge of the desk. His task complete, he turned to flee the room as soon as possible. Remembering his promise to the lady, however, his eyes hastily darted over the man to determine whether he was in good health.

A bit of bright red at the pale man's side caught the caretaker's eye, and bit-by-bit, Norry began to see this ruthless human being in a new light.

Clearing his throat, the old man chose his words carefully. "A man's got to eat, sometime."

Erik turned back to the ledger, waving his hand dismissively. "I am perfectly capable of caring for myself. Leave me." He opened a drawer and pulled out a blank sheet of paper, took up his pen, and began to scratch something across the top, acutely aware of the old man watching him intently, making no move to leave.

"All the same, Monsieur, your side is bleeding." Norry spoke more boldly than he normally would to a gentleman, but this was not a normal French household. And now that the strange man's eyes were not upon him, he was able to speak more freely. "Those men that night—they attacked you, I suppose, when we left." He paused, the truth of their situation now falling into place. "They would have come after us, instead. I guess that means I'm indebted to you."

Erik threw down his pen in exasperation. "Are there no secrets in this house? Really, sir, I desire you to leave at once."

Instead, Norry pressed on, at last knowing that something needed to be said to ease the tension in the household. "We are in close quarters here, Monsieur, and problems are bound to erupt. So that's why—" again he paused, cautiously choosing his words. "I need to ask you to forgive my girlie." He watched as the man's eyes narrowed coldly.

"Your daughter," Erik hissed quietly, "is on very dangerous ground. You should advise her not to cross me again." He turned back to his papers, but the caretaker noted that his hand made no movement toward the discarded pen.

"I will." Norry pulled a wooden chair up to the desk and flipped it backwards. Swinging a leg over the seat, he comfortably settled himself across from the man, paying no mind to the look of horror that crossed Erik's face. "The thing with Papillon is, there's a lot of anger an' hurt mixed up in there, after Perri an' all, even before that. She means well, though, an' she did what she did to set things right, not to be cruel to anyone."

The masked man opened his mouth to protest, but the father continued, holding up a hand. "Now I'm not saying what she did was right—snooping about your things like that. But she only acted rashly because she cares about the Comtesse. Madame de Chagny—"

The mention of Christine caused Erik to seriously consider whether it would not be best for him to simply leave the room, for the direction the man's words were taking triggered a certain unease. Something about old Norry's blunt, unguarded manners, however, made the man want to hear him out; made him feel almost…normal. So he remained in his chair, quietly studying the servant.

"Madame de Chagny—now there's a woman with a big heart. But you see, its still achin' right now. It's a hard thing to do—let go of someone you love. An' the Comtesse—well, she's gun-shy, I guess you would say. Doesn't like confrontation much; gets all weepy an' overwhelmed when things come down on her too fast. I've seen my share of her little nervous fits, believe me." The caretaker chuckled, and Erik couldn't help but inwardly smile at the man's all-too accurate analysis of Christine. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest as Norry continued.

"My wife was the same way. I loved her nigh on six years before she finally married me. Her head was filled with thoughts of some other fellow—a man that died in one of those bloody peasant revolts in '48 or '49. Oh, she loved me enough, but her heart was also achin' and torn between the past and the present." Norry swept a calloused hand over his face and leaned forward against the chair, tilting it onto two legs. "Like I said, its hard to let go an' all—takes some time an' lots of patience. An' if I pushed her when she wasn't ready, it would've backfired on me. You see, I loved her enough to wait…" The old caretaker let the chair legs fall back to the ground and raised his wizened eyes to meet the man's at the desk.

Erik squirmed under the steady gaze, the servant's words hitting too close to his own story. He quickly dropped a cool mask of indifference across his features, picked up his pen, and tried to find his last train of thought before the interruption. "While I'm sure your intentions are good, Monsieur Nitote," he spoke tersely, "I am afraid that there is much more to this situation between the Comtesse and myself; obstacles you no nothing about. And at the moment, I really have no desire to fraternize with you over them."

The old man nodded sadly and rose from the chair to take his leave. "As I said, I don't mean to interfere. Just plain advice from an old man—take it or leave it." He shuffled across the room to the door.

"Monsieur," Erik called to the caretaker; he halted in the doorway and turned back, his bushy eyebrows raised inquisitively. "You remind me of an acquaintance of mine—a Persian. He never ceases to dispense unwanted advice, as well. Inform Madame de Chagny that I will speak with her in an hour's time."

Norry nodded in approval. "She'd be in the nursery with her son by then, I would think."

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Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	16. Lessons in Cursing

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for that fabulous duo, Hale and Murray!

**Side Notes:** **  
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**Some readers did not receive their author alert for Chapter 15. If you have not read that chapter, you may want to before you read this one :)**

_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)_

_Thank you also to Juni, for her suggestions and help with the NHM research. You are a peach!_

**Lessons in Cursing**

"The boy seems to enjoy it up here." Christine spun around at the sound of her angel's voice, a smile spreading across her face. Ever since Norry had returned from his lengthy conversation with news of Erik, she had anxiously awaited his visit, flying about her quarters in a whirl of bath oils and soaps, struggling to clean away the layers of flour from her unfortunate baking experience.

"Yes, but I am afraid that poor Mr. Punch shall be hatless before long," she laughed nervously. The mother turned back to her child and gently grabbed his fist, pulled him back from the sour-faced puppet, and whispered a small warning into his ear. Jean-Paul jerked his arm away from his mother's grasp and toddled over to the strange man, peering up into his face with unabashed interest.

The man, irritated by the child's scrutinizing gaze, turned away and walked past him to the window. A glowing panorama of the London skyline greeted him, the city's lights twinkling through the cold, black night. He leaned against the window's brightly painted frame and sighed, keeping his back to the other occupants of the nursery.

"Christine, I actually have a specific reason for wishing to speak with you." He pulled a thin book from under his arm and flipped it open. Scanning the black scrawl of each entry once more, he beckoned the woman to his side.

She peered around his shoulder with unconcealed curiosity at the writing and with a start, recognized the records for all of her purchases, from her wedding trousseau to her black mourning clothes. Many were frivolous and expensive, to her chagrin.

"Why, this is my bank ledger!" The Comtesse paused in confusion, puzzling over how Erik came to be in possession of an item that should have been locked in the vaults of the _Banque Nationale de Paris_. "How did you—"

"Acquire it?" Erik finished. "With a great deal of care, and very little time in which to do so." He glanced over his shoulder at the woman's lost expression and frowned, not wishing to add burglary and thievery to his list of confessions. "However, this account seems to have funded more than just your domestic drivel, my dear." He pointed out the various entries that perplexed him.

_20,000 francs, paid in full to C. Daaé: transfer to _Ceska Obchodni Banka_, Praha, Bohemia_

"There are thirty-eight similar monthly transfers to one C. Daaé in Prague, from the time of your marriage to your husband's death this past June." He handed the book to the widow and she flipped through the pages of the ledger, her confusion at his words evident. "Can you shed any light on this, Christine? Why was he using your maiden name for a bank account in Prague—to diversify his funds, use it for estate business? Or for some other purpose…" He tentatively placed his hands on the woman's shoulders and turned her to meet his eyes.

"Christine," he spoke cautiously, "is it possible that your husband may have kept a—"

"No!" Christine cried, stopping the words before they left Erik's mouth. She wrenched from his grasp and turned cold eyes upon the man. "Whatever you may think of Raoul de Chagny," she spat, "he loved me, and only me. I can assure you, he would have had no reason to keep a mistress."

"Christine," Erik said with frustration, pushing back the flare of jealousy at her passionate defense of the deceased man, and the insinuation behind her stinging words. "I am not accusing him of doing so! I just want you to look at every angle—that is all. If you say he did not and are sure of it, then we can eliminate the possibility. However, since you seem to know nothing about the account in _your_ name, then the boy must have had some secrets—you told me as much, yourself. It may be of some importance, or it may not."

The widow wrapped her arms around her waist and allowed the man's words to sink in. She absently studied the tiny buttons of his silk vest for several minutes, her thoughts far away. At last, she shook her head in response.

"No," she murmured, "I am certain that there was no one else, Erik." She sighed heavily, momentarily unsure of whether it was the appropriate time to unburden her heart upon the man. "I am sorry to have snapped so—you were to correct to have asked. You unknowingly hit upon a sensitive spot, I suppose. You see, while Raoul was faithful, I, regrettably, was not…"

Christine wearily leaned against the window frame opposite her teacher and raised guilty eyes to meet his wary ones. "In truth, I was the one who was unfaithful—not in body, but in mind. Even when I thought you to be dead, my angel, you still haunted me—your voice, your music—it called to my soul…"

Erik turned his face away, dreading the torment that her words would bring, cursing himself for being too weak to prevent her lips from uttering further secrets. She spoke on.

"How can a woman love two men at once? Isn't such a thing considered to be cruel and selfish?" Christine gazed upon the cold London night, distantly tracing the delicate lace patterns of frost on the windowpane. "Yet I never saw myself as such a woman until I observed the pain in your eyes, and in his. So I did the only thing I could do: I returned one of the hearts—broken, but nevertheless, again your own. That action alone, however, did not mean that I could forget; its not that simple, is it Erik?"

The masked man closed his eyes painfully, unwilling to be drawn into the beautiful tableau before him. He searched about for something, anything to grasp hold of, some lifeline to save a drowning man from the deadly torrents of memories and regret.

"Your M. Nitot gave me this list." Straightening his back in resolution, he dropped his cool mask of indifference into place and pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. Skimming over it again, he turned to the Comtesse, not daring to meet her sad blue eyes. "Figs, almonds, rock candy…clay _santon_ figurines… coloring pencils and books…corset laces," his eyes briefly flicked up to Christine as she crossed her arms in wounded indignation, stunned by sudden change of topic.

He continued on, more to provoke the girl than to actually double-check the items. "Gardening gloves, two white gentleman's handkerchiefs…hair pins…" he flew down the list, his lips curling sardonically.

"And here is a gem—a handheld cream-separator. God knows we cannot do without one of those! Really Christine, I have other things to do tomorrow than traipse about London on a scavenger hunt for these items."

"Perhaps if you let Papi and I do the shopping tomorrow, you would not have to concern yourself with _these items._ We cannot stay cooped up here forever, Erik, or we shall go ma…" Christine tried to halt the poorly-chosen words before they flew from her mouth, but it was too late. She glanced nervously up at the man framed by the night sky, his face clouding dangerously.

"What do you want from me, Christine? An outing—is that what you desire?" he replied snidely. "Perhaps a holiday to Bath, then. It is rather _cold_ this time of year, but if you wish it—"

The woman's hands flew up into the air, and she turned from the man in hurt exasperation. As the vehemence filtered out of her blood, however, her arms slowly lowered to her side and she hung her head, resigned to the fact that Erik's distant coldness had indeed returned.

Jean-Paul squealed and tossed a Noah's Ark giraffe across the room, demanding the notice of his _Maman_. Coming to her senses, the young mother purposefully strode over to her little son and spoke a few words into his ear.

"Enough of that, Jean-Paul. Go find Papi, and she shall give you a treat," she cajoled, then stood at the top of the stairs and watched her little son crawl down them one by one, his white bloomers peeping out from under his tunic, then dart through the door.

_No,_ she thought solemnly, _it would not be wise to allow him to hear the rest of this conversation._ The mother turned back to her teacher, who was again glaring out the window.

"I suppose that I deserve your scorn," she began softly. "And you probably expect me to burst into tears any moment; I find, however, that I grow tired of crying over your words, Erik. The things that you confessed to me that day in the ballroom—at the time, it was just too much, too crushing. I couldn't feel anything except horror at your words. I suppose I still _am _afraid."

"Yes," the masked man spat, "I really must apologize for the way I kissed you, the things I insinuated; rather roguish of me. After all, we can't have your loveliness sullied—"

"That's not what I meant, Erik," the woman interjected, but he continued on, sarcasm infused into every word.

"Normally, when someone tells you that they are _in love_ with you…but then again, you are far above normal, my dear. The opera tickets, roses, dresses, perfumes and other little gifts…all to sweep you off your feet so I could have my way with you. But you saw through it, clever girl. Truly, since I arrived in London, I have been entirely too unguarded. A man such as myself cannot afford to love—the risk is too great."

"I don't believe that simple seduction has been your intention," Christine replied calmly, shaking her head. "You are above that, my angel. However, I was not referring to romantic overtures; I was referring to the killings."

Erik paused for several moments, his shoulders slumping wearily. "I am well aware of what you were _referring_ to, Christine," he said quietly. "That particular subject, though, is no longer open for discussion."

"But Norry told me that you were hurt," the girl rushed on, heedless of the man's displeased expression. "The man in Kensington—he attacked you?"

"Yes, he attacked me and I killed him," her angel at last relented, his aggravation rising again with every word. "Don't try to justify it, Christine. I can assure you, the vast majority of my killings were not in self-defense. As I said, however, this conversation is closed."

The Comtesse sucked in her trembling lower lip, her incense at the man's stubbornness taking its toll on her patience. She tried again, her voice steady. "As I was saying, Norry said that you were hurt. That was three weeks ago, Erik; the knife wound you are trying to hide is not healing properly, and will cause you a lot of trouble if a doctor does not see to it. At least add bandages and blue vitriol to the list for Hale—that is what Dr. Sablet had me use on my shoulder—"

"Your concern is touching," the man spat, ignoring her pleas to see a doctor. "As I told your prying caretaker, however, I am capable of caring for myself."

She opened her mouth to retort, but a faint, dissonant sound floating up the stairs caught her attention. Walking over to the staircase, she craned her neck, listening for the noise.

_There it was…a strange, jarring chord, like…_

_Jean-Paul was pounding on Erik's piano again!_ With a cry, she flew down the stairs, through the hallways, down another set of steps, until she came to the ballroom. She had caught the child five times over the past weeks immersed in such behavior; each instance, he had received a scolding and had been shuffled out of the room before Erik could hear. But now, Erik's wrath seemed unavoidable, for there was her little boy, deviously banging his fists against the keys of the masked man's beloved instrument, laughing happily at the discordant harmonies hovering about the empty room.

Christine grabbed her wayward son's wrists away from the keys and gently shook them. "No, Jean-Paul! I have told you countless times, no pounding on the piano. If I find you in here again, there will be trouble!"

The indignant child squirmed out of his _Maman's_ grasp, his rear plopping back onto the piano bench. His brow furrowed stubbornly and his lower lip began to tremble, the tell-tale signs of another tantrum coming on. The frazzled woman's eyes grew wide and she quickly scooped up the little boy before the wailing ensued.

"Please,_ mon petit_, no tears!" She bounced him back and forth, desperately trying to soothe his temper.

"What _that boy_ needs is a taste of discipline, not coddling," Erik snipped as he entered the ballroom behind her. "I suppose his father was never chastised, either. Really, Christine, you aren't doing him any favors." The mother lowered her son to the ground, then whirled about to face the sardonic man.

"_That boy_ has a name, just as his father did," she flung back shrilly, her patience at last snapping. "And I'll not let you bully Jean-Paul just because you loathed Raoul. He is my child, as well!"

The masked man stepped back in surprise at the intense fervor radiating from the mother, a lioness protecting her cub. Ever so slowly, the shock drained away, once again leaving the man in control of his faculties.

"Do you suppose the fact that he is your child makes me feel any differently towards him?" he replied coolly. "The simple truth is that your 'discipline' seems to have no effect on him whatsoever." He stepped back to observe the effect of his stinging words; the woman's face clouded with some unfathomable look, and Erik immediately wished he could snatch back the remark.

As if to emphasize the man's point, Jean-Paul, who had once again crawled up onto the piano bench, brought his tiny fists down upon the keys with a loud cry.

"_Merde!_"

Christine opened her mouth in complete and utter shock, then closed it again. The stunned mother moved towards the boy, crouching down to his eye-level. "What did you say?" she whispered tremulously.

He gazed sweetly up at his _Maman's_ ashen face and smiled, repeating the taboo word.

"_Merde!_"

"_Mon Dieu_," Erik murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement as he recalled his encounter with the boy during his inexorable composing. "He really does soak up everything."

The woman slowly rose from the ground and turned an accusing eye towards the man at her side. "And just where," she whispered, her voice low and threatening, "did my son learn that word?"

Erik raised his hands in defense, his eyes glistening. "My dear Madame, you cannot accuse me of teaching filth to your child, as I have neither seen nor spoken to him for three weeks."

Christine held his gaze for several moments, then nodded in assent, a half-hearted smile playing at her lips. "I suppose it would be rather funny, if not for the fact that you were correct just minutes ago. I _do_ have a very difficult time dealing with my son, especially since I am his only parent." Her voice broke, and she turned her eyes away from Erik's, uncomfortable with the sudden flare of pity she saw there.

The young mother walked over to the boy and placed her hands over his ears—she knew that her child often understood much more than she gave him credit for. "Jean-Paul is very stubborn, and he often pushes and pushes until he wears me down. He knows that he can—call it a battle of wills, if you like. However, I will do my best to keep him away from your piano, Erik."

And indeed, that particular situation never occurred again, thus negating the need to pry the child's fists from the piano. The truth of it was, however, that the little boy entirely ceased to destructively pound upon the black and white keys after that evening.

Later that night, after the rest of the household was in bed, Christine found that sleep once again eluded her. The argument with Erik raced through her mind, and thoughts of being a failed mother plagued her ruthlessly. Grabbing up her blue shawl, she once again roamed the halls as she had done for so many nights, quietly making her way down the stairs towards the library. A dim glow coming from the ballroom, however, stopped her in her tracks. She crept forward as quietly as possible and paused in the shadows, just beyond the open door.

Someone was softly plunking the piano keys, one note at a time. A low, unintelligible murmur floated to her and she cautiously peered around the doorframe to observe its source. The sight that met her eyes caused the breath to catch in her throat, and she leaned back against the wall in disbelief. Her heart beating wildly within her, she put a hand to her chest to still her fluttering pulse. Inhaling deeply, she stole another glance.

There was her little son on the piano bench, his feet tucked underneath his nightshirt, fingers gently resting on the keys. He turned his innocent face up to the man also seated at the bench, and waited for him to speak.

"Very good, Jean-Paul," Erik whispered, quietly encouraging the boy. "Now, play the middle C once more. Do you remember which one it is?" The child solemnly nodded in response, turned to the C key, and gently pressed it down. His wide blue eyes quickly darted back to his instructor, seeking his approval. The masked man leaned forward, awkwardly patted his pupil's hand, then turned the boy to face him.

"I know that you are too young to understand this, Jean-Paul, but the sooner you learn, the better. Music must be treated with love and respect. If you thoughtlessly pound away at the piano keys, you demand too much of it and it will reject you. It is best to patiently wait for it to come to you, infuse you, lift you up." He glanced down at the child's upturned face, read the confusion there, and looked for a better way to phrase his words.

"What do you love, Jean-Paul?" The boy's face lit in comprehension, and he openly beamed up at the masked man.

"_Maman!_" he cried, unaware that his mother was brimming with joy just beyond the dark room.

Erik seriously considered the child's answer. "You don't like to make her sad, correct? Therefore, you should treat her with love and respect. It is the same with music. Can you understand that, Jean-Paul?"

"Yes," he answered softly, and his teacher nodded in approval.

"Very well, then, Monsieur—it is time for you to return to bed. And I believe that you shall find your _Maman_ waiting for you just outside the door."

And it was then that Christine knew his words had been for her, and that she had been forgiven.

* * *

Hale tugged at his brown rumpled suit, trying without success to smooth out the wrinkles.

_Ah well, _he thought resignedly, _it lends itself to the persona._

Tonight, he was a rather absentminded scholar—a museum curator, to be exact, complete with rimmed spectacles, trim goatee, a faded bowler hat, and a brass pocketwatch. Pulling the piece from his vest, he flipped open the tarnished cover and again checked the time. A quarter after five. The building had been closed for a good hour now, and the cleaning staff would be sure to vacate within the hour this Christmas Eve to return to their families and begin their celebrations. The only inhabitants would be the old guard who, according to Hale's careful instructions, would conveniently take a break at six o'clock while the agent and his guests entered the building.

The man paced about the library, his eyes scanning the collection of books, the paintings on the walls, the fireplace, then back to his watch again. Several minutes passed and he was just about to move back into the foyer when at last his host swept through the door.

"Hale, good evening. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had several things to attend to before our departure," the masked man said crisply. "The Comtesse and her son shall be down momentarily." Erik laid his cloak and fedora across the back of the armchair and gestured to the crystal decanter in the corner, offering the agent a drink.

The man shook his head in refusal and instead pulled out a cigar, clipped and lit it, then puffed on the end to draw the flames up. Settling himself into the other armchair, he watched in silence as the masked man stirred up the fire and placed his gloved hand upon the mantle, studying the leaping orange and gold flames.

The agent lowered his cigar, slowly exhaling a ring of smoke. "I feel that I owe you an apology, Monsieur, for making the affair in Kensington infamous among the _Sûreté_ circles; I am sure Nadir has informed you of this himself."

Erik nodded, his eyes not leaving the flames.

Hale cleared his throat uncertainly. "You must understand that I had no choice but to report the incident. I can assure you, however, that no one outside the agency knows of it—not even Scotland Yard." The agent watched with relief as the tension eased from the other man's posture, his back relaxing at the explanation.

"It is of no consequence," Erik replied, waving his hand in dismissal. "I suppose I should be the one to apologize for the trouble you have gone through to acquire everything on that list. Damned foolishness, most of it, but I suppose that _Noël_ is rather important to Madame de Chagny." The masked man's face clouded as he remembered some event unknown to the agent and he turned back to the flames, the firelight deepening the contrasts and crags of his weary features.

"My housekeeper does the shopping, Monsieur, so it was no trouble on my account," Hale replied nonchalantly, filling the air about him with another cloud of cigar smoke. "The woman is a saint, really—always handles my requests without any prying questions. I have taken the liberty of leaving all of the items with your maid." He paused, his intelligent eyes narrowing as he considered the intimidating man.

"Tell me, Monsieur, does Madame the Comtesse know that you plan to leave London after the holidays?" The agent warily studied Erik's reactions, trying to piece together the events that had taken place in the three weeks since Kensington. After all, this man had gone to desperate lengths to come to London and to this particular woman's aid, so why should he desire to leave now?

Erik cast chilly eyes upon Hale, indignant at being watched so—as if he were a specimen to poke and prod. He held the _Sûreté_ agent's steady gaze, then deciding that the man meant no harm by his question, relaxed his guarded demeanor. "I shall inform her of my plans this evening, Monsieur, at the museum. I thought that a spell away from the confines of this house would do both she and her son some good. And as you more than likely know, I have an interest in architecture. This particular building is one of a kind, so I have heard, and I would like to see it before I depart for Paris."

Hale nodded, reaching forward to tap the ashes from the tip of his cigar. "Well then, all is arranged; you and your guests shall have the entire building for as long as you like."

"And which building would that be?" a lilting voice called from the doorway, summoning the men's attention. Hale craned his neck around the armchair and leapt to his feet as he saw the Comtesse glide into the room, her child nestled in her arms with his thumb firmly ensconced in his mouth. "Forgive me for keeping you waiting. This little one just cannot seem to stay awake today." She cast a meaningful look towards the masked man, then pressed her lips to the top of the child's curly head and lowered him to the ground. She bent to finish buttoning his navy overcoat, her bustled velvet skirts spilling about her, the deep green color of her dress heightening the rosy hue of her cheeks and the rich brown of her curls.

Hale sucked in his breath and leaned his faltering form against the armchair, taken aback by the woman's loveliness. Stepping forward cautiously, he extended his hand to the lady and helped her to her feet. Bowing over her gloved hand, he lightly kissed it in greeting.

"Madame de Chagny, I have observed you from afar, but I do not believe we have properly met." The agent waited for Erik to step up and make the introductions, but only silence met him; it was then that he became aware of the cool manner in which the masked man was regarding him, his eyes fairly boring holes into the trespassing agent's back. Stepping away, Hale released the woman's fingers and cleared his throat, conceding to the other man's claim.

The Comtesse, however, did not notice the silent exchange that took place and smiled warmly at the man in the rumpled brown suit. "Monsieur Hale, I presume? I hear that I owe you a good deal of thanks, for I was told that you have seen to the safety of my household since our arrival in London. It is truly a pleasure to meet you."

The _Sûreté_ agent cleared his throat again and scooped up his brown hat. "Well, yes. Likewise, Madame," he muttered and plopped the bowler on his head, smoothing the crushed brim back into place.

Erik cast one final menacing glance towards the man, swept his cape about his shoulders and donned his fedora, then helped Christine shrug into her cloak. She thanked him softly and took Jean-Paul's hand, leading the way into the foyer and out to Murray and the waiting cab.

"You asked which building we would be visiting, earlier," Erik at last spoke as he handed Christine into the cab.

A moment of panic seized the woman as a memory flashed through her mind; the last time Erik had handed her into a cab, he had left her behind to pursue the dangers that lurked in the shadows and had almost been killed in the process. She clasped his fingers for a moment, afraid to let go, but released them as the masked man's eyes silently questioned her. Waving away her momentary lapse, she reached out her arms for Jean-Paul. Only when the man climbed into the coach and settled himself next to Hale did she breathe a sigh of relief.

"The Natural History Museum—its not too far from here, in South Kensington," the man continued as the hansom sprang forward. "I thought that the bo—that Jean-Paul," he corrected, "would enjoy it. The structure was only completed several years ago, and is supposedly as fascinating as the collection itself. It is built in a German Romanesque style—the walls and ceilings are a colorful mosaic of bricks and terracotta carvings—really one of a kind."

Christine smiled gently at the man's enthusiasm, something that he very rarely allowed others to see. "Thank you for thinking of Jean-Paul, Erik. I am sure he shall be delighted with it." Her gaze fell to her son, who had buried his face in her lap and was now lightly drowsing. _He is asleep now,_ she mused, _but when he sees the animals on exhibit, it will be all I can do to keep up with him._ Sighing with contentment, the mother stroked her son's hair as she watched the yellow windows of the Kensington houses fly past. The quiet of the cab allowed for her thoughts to roam, and she replayed the minor confrontation she had had with Erik not an hour ago…

_Christine had been making the final touches to her appearance when Erik's reflection appeared just behind her image, resplendent in his crisp black and white evening wear. Smiling at him in her mirror, she tucked two more hairpins into her curls, patted them down, then turned to greet the man. _

"_Hale arrived ten minutes ago. Are you ready yet, Christine, or should I give you another ten minutes?" he remarked dryly, tugging his soft white gloves into place. The woman's smile remained plastered to her face as she lifted the lid from a dainty bottle of lavender perfume and dabbed the scent behind her ears, her trembling fingers betraying the nerves that consumed her entire person._

"_Not quite," she replied sweetly, gathering up the small bundle of bandages and blue vitriol from Hale that Papi had just delivered. Sending a quick prayer to the heavens that she did not spark Erik's temper with her boldness, she drew a deep breath and let the words spill forth. "Before we leave, I would like to take care of that knife wound you insist is not bothering you. I promise I shall hurry." The nervous woman bit her lower lip, studying her teacher's face as it blanched. _

"_No," he replied hoarsely, after several moments had passed. "Absolutely not; it is fine. We should be on our way then—is Jean-Paul ready?"_

_Christine fixed determined eyes on the man. "He is still asleep in his room, but ready enough. I shall not leave until it is taken care of, Erik. Moreover," she continued, her cheeks flushing, "we have seen each other in various stages of…informality before, and it has never bothered you."_

_The masked man's eyebrows quirked up in surprise as she flung his very words back at him, and he smirked at her impertinence. "You shall not relent in this, I suppose, until you have had your way or I am in my grave?" The girl nodded, relief seeping into her body. Her maestro sighed and turned to remove his vest, carefully laying it across the bed. He then untucked his crisp, white shirt and lifted the corners to allow the Comtesse access to the knife wound._

"_Very well, St. Elizabeth, my Hungarian nurse; I am at your mercy." _

_Christine grinned at his sarcasm and pulled the small bench from the dresser over to the man's side, seated herself, and arranged the bandages, cotton, and medicine next to her. Her grin rapidly faded, however, as she gingerly lifted the fabric of his shirt away and beheld the angry red wound, warm and swollen after three weeks of neglect. She sucked in her breath, soaked the cotton with the vitriol and pressed it to Erik's side, careful not to inflict any more pain. The man balled his fists, hissing through his teeth as the hydrate burned and fizzed._

"Merde_," he breathed, and the Comtesse's face flew up at the utterance._

"_Ah, so it was you then—you _did_ teach my son that filthy word!" she exclaimed, trying to draw the man's attention away from her painful ministrations to the gash at his side. Pouring a bit more medicine on the cotton, she again pressed it to his side, wincing as his scarred torso involuntarily jerked at the fresh wave of pain. "I am sorry, my angel," she murmured as he threaded his white knuckles through his hair, exhaling in agony._

"_Are you through with your torture, my dear?" he muttered through clenched teeth, barely managing to sustain a tight control over his voice. "Or should I call down to Hale to go on without us?" _

_Christine took up a strip of linen and again soaked it with the vitriol, pressed it to his side with one hand, and unwound a bandage roll with the other. "This is the last one. I'll leave it here and wrap the bandage around your waist, like so." She circled her arms about the man's rib cage, winding the linens around and around until the irritated knife wound was completely covered. Securing the end with a pin, she leaned back to examine her work. _

"_I should think that will hold for tonight," she murmured, studying the bandages solemnly. "But Erik, you should see a doctor with this as soon as possible. If the infection spreads, you know very well how deadly it could be." Her thoughts flew back to the fever that had ravished her angel's body only two months ago. "If you were to leave me, I don't know what I would do…" _

The clattering of the slowing hansom cab upon the cobblestones of Cromwell Road pulled her into the present, and she peered through her window at the white looming beast that was Waterhouse's Natural History Museum. The towering spires of the main entrance reached up towards the night sky like two stoic sentinels guarding over all of Kensington. Just beyond the museum, the woman could see the Royal Albert Hall; she started, not realizing the buildings were so close to each other. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the evening she had spent with her angel, the pull of the music, their stroll about the grounds and his forceful kiss…

Murray hopped down from his cold perch and swung open the door, letting in a rush of frigid winter air. Jean-Paul stirred from his slumber in his _Maman_'s lap and she pulled him into a sitting position to straighten his wool cap and mittens.

"Look, Jean-Paul," she murmured in his ear, nodding to the great building before them. "There are all sorts of things to see inside—giraffes, whales, insects, snakes, birds, squirrels—remember the little squirrel at the park?" The memory caused the little boy to squeal with delight; he slid down from his mother's lap and toddled to the door, holding out his arms to the masked man waiting outside.

Erik hesitated for a moment, then placed his hands under the child's arms and lifted him from the cab. He quickly set him down upon the cobblestones, keeping a tight hold on the boy's coat collar until Christine could alight from the coach and reclaim him.

Murmuring a thank you, the amused mother took up her little son's mittened hand and led him along the stone path to the arched entranceway, watching as Hale and Murray sprinted forward to unlock the massive double doors.

"You understand Christine," Erik quipped at her side, "that these particular squirrel specimens will be slightly less lively than then ones at the park. I hope your son is not disappointed."

"On the contrary, I think that he shall be pleased." The woman smiled warmly at the man, once again touched by his concern for her child. "Usually, any living animal scampers away from Jean-Paul and his cries of delight before he has the chance to observe them. I think that he shall enjoy the museum very much, as will I."

The man nodded in response, saying nothing more as they passed through the recessed arches of the building's entrance, set upon ornately embellished columns. Christine's breath caught in her throat at the glorious sight before her. A great hall with endless glass ceilings greeted her, the starry night sky filtering through the windows. All around, golds, greens, browns and blues swirled up the walls, pillars, and ceilings in a fascinating geometric imitation of nature—a stone garden of Eden. Terracotta animals peered through the carved foliage at her from their corners, and she could almost hear them chatter warnings to one another of their sanctuary's intrusion. Here and there, iron and glass lay exposed to the observer, lending a rustic functionality to the structure that strangely complimented the detailed beauty of the carvings. If ever a cathedral were erected to the glory of the natural world, this was it.

Voices echoed around her and the Comtesse shook herself from her reverie, glancing about for her companions. Hale and Murray were slowly making their way through the hall, apparently to track down the guard. On the other side of the gallery, Erik stood next to her tiny son, pointing through an archway as he explained something in detail. She strode closer to man and child until she was within earshot.

"…were great creatures that died out long ago—you won't find any today. No one is really certain what mammoths looked like, but we can guess from their skeletons…"

The Comtesse peered around the archway into the gallery just beyond and jumped back, startled by the massive set of bones displayed in the center of the dim room. She grasped the man's elbow at her side and he flinched in surprise. He did not, however, remove her hand from the crook of his arm.

"Do you think that Jean-Paul may be a little young to see something so…ghastly? It could frighten him…" Christine whispered hoarsely as they slowly made their way through the room. Erik smirked in amusement and lightly patted the worried mother's hand.

"I say that the only one frightened is you, my dear; your son is not phased in the least. Look at him—it will be all you can do to keep him from climbing up the thing." True to his words, Jean Paul was at that moment pulling himself onto the platform, his eyes locked on the mammoth skeleton suspended by cables, just above his head. With a little cry, the mother sprinted over to the child and scooped him up before any damage could be done.

Similar events occurred a good many times throughout the course of the evening as the trio made their way from gallery to gallery: Jean-Paul grasping the fur of displayed animals, ducking under railings, pressing his curious hands against the glass coverings of the insect displays, the fossil cases, even the jars of preserved sea organisms. As she had predicted, the frantic mother could barely keep pace with the little boy that had slept so soundly the entire day.

For an entire two hours, man and woman followed the elated toddler through the exhibits, only pausing to read labels and plaques when Jean-Paul stood next to them, his probing fingers determinedly reaching through the bars, not quite able to grasp the desired thing. Only when their visit was drawing to a close did the boy's energy at last seem to die away. Plopping down next to a pillar in the final exhibition room, the child groggily leaned his curly head against the cool stone.

His mother knelt to gently pick him up, smiling partly in enjoyment of the excursion, partly in relief that it was over. Her small boy once more nestled against her shoulder, she turned a slow circle about the gallery, gazing at her surroundings. This particular room seemed to have some sort of a Mid-east theme; the walls were lined with paintings depicting caravans of traders crossing vast deserts dotted with rocks and shrubs, their camels loaded with their goods. Others showed lush gardens with colorfully exotic plants and flowers, an oasis of water to the weary travelers.

The centerpiece of the room was a grouping of camels, their black glassy eyes staring at everything and nothing. An involuntary chill ran up the woman's spine and she shuddered as an ominous air settled about the room. She turned to her companion and saw that he also gazed intently at the camel display, his hands clasped behind him, back ramrod straight. And then the thought struck her that the foreboding feeling was not centered upon the camels, but the man himself. He turned to face her, and she saw that his eyes were ablaze with some inner turmoil, burning with unspoken words, threatening to consume him. He took another step forward, at last giving voice to the question that charged the air.

"Do you think that your son should like to see a real camel, perhaps even ride one?"

Christine blinked in shock, the words the farthest thing from the ones she had expected to hear. "Well, I suppose that he would, Erik," she sputtered, her blue eyes wide with confusion.

The man turned away from her and began to pace in front of the lifeless creatures.

"I only ask this because…" he paused and took a deep breath, searching for words that would not come. The Comtesse narrowed her eyes suspiciously, confused by her angel's behavior.

"Erik," she said cautiously, "what is this about? I must say that I have never seen you act so strangely. If you wish to tell me something, I cannot deny you. You may speak to me about anything—anything at all," she hinted, hoping against hope that perhaps he desired to repair their fragile understanding once and for all.

He sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Very well. However, I must warn you that you will not like what I have to say. I have received word from a friend of mine in Paris, who has been diligently making arrangements for the relocation of your family. He shall be arriving in London in three days' time, and shall subsequently move you and your household to Jerusalem. Thus, the inquiry about the camels."

Christine stilled at the man's words, her mouth gaping in mute shock. Several moments had passed until she was able to find her voice again, and even then, it was but a mere whisper. "Jerusalem? _The_ Jerusalem? But…I don't…why there?"

"Precisely," Erik replied, further baffling the woman. "Why there? I doubt that the _Narodnaya Volya_ would think to look for you in Palestine, at least not for a long while. Jerusalem is also the whereabouts of a man who Nadir believes may have answers to some of the questions regarding your husband's involvement with the _People's Will_. And when their search for you grows more reckless with each passing week, they will make mistakes; I shall be in Paris, watching for them."

"Nadir—who is…_Paris_? Erik, you plan to accompany us to Jerusalem, don't you?" An overwhelming panic took hold of the startled woman and her knees began to fail her, the color draining from her face. The masked man quickly took Jean-Paul from her arms and grasped her about the waist, helping her to a bench along the wall. Carefully lowering Jean-Paul into her arms again, he sat next to her and leaned forward as if in deep thought, his elbows resting upon his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

"Christine, I know that this is a shock for you, but you must understand," he said softly, weighing his words carefully. "I _must_ return to Paris—I cannot remain locked away in the town house, evading you, or the truth, any longer."

"And what truth might that be?" she murmured softly, her shock gradually being replaced by the cruel reality of his words.

Erik kept his eyes upon the floor, not daring to look upon the woman. "The truth is that if I do not leave you now, I will never have the strength to again."

The statement hung in the air, the most honest, bluntest declaration of his inner struggles that the Comtesse had heard the man utter. The simplicity of it struck her to the heart; not because of what was said, but the way in which he had said it. No fury, no anguish, not even a hint of passion. Instead, the words had been spoken with a calmness of mind that spoke volumes; it told Christine that his decision was made, and no amount of pleading, weeping, or reasoning on her part could cause him to bend in the slightest.

She pressed a cold palm to her forehead and closed her eyes, willing away the wretched tears that threatened to spill over. _What good would tears be, except to make a mockery of my composed demeanor and give my angel another reason to fly from my side? _Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she forced herself to answer.

"You truly feel that you must leave, then?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Yes."

The woman stared absently at the painting of the travelers hanging on the wall. "And there is nothing that I can say or do to convince you to stay?"

Her angel paused in thought, carefully weighing her question. At last, he shook his head.

"No."

The ashen woman nodded and slowly rose from the bench, tightly hugging her sleeping child to her. She made her way across the galleries, passing by the giraffes, whales, insects, snakes, birds, and squirrels as if in a dream, vaguely aware of the man trailing behind her. Just before she entered the grand hall he caught her elbow and turned her to face him. The look of devastation upon his face cruelly tore at her soul. For at that very moment, she knew their hearts beat as one. The same heart, same soul.

Same loss. And the tears trickled down the rivets of her face.

"Christine," he whispered, placing a soft kiss upon her temple. "I wanted to say goodbye here instead of at the house; give you a more pleasant memory, rather than the bad ones we have created over the past several weeks."

"Not all of them were bad," she murmured dismally.

He gently brushed away her tears with his thumb, wrapping his long, thin fingers around the curve of her neck. "Please understand that this must be done—if I remain any longer, this sorrow that haunts us will only increase. With my past, we could never have a normal, happy life—"

"—I don't want a normal life," she fiercely interjected. "I want _you_!"

The masked man closed his eyes and inhaled, his hand on her neck tensing. Slowly, he let it drop back to his side and stepped away, his gold eyes glistening with determination.

"No," he spoke, the finality in his voice rigid and unyielding.

* * *

The Comtesse wearily stepped out of the hansom and into the cold air, the yellow windows of their London residence warmly glowing through the darkness of the _Noël _eve. Erik silently placed Jean-Paul into her arms, then made his way over to Murray and Hale, thanking them for their efforts.

She stood at the door and waited for the masked man, shivering as the frosty night wind swirled under her cloak and through her clothing.

_At least Jerusalem shall be warm_, she thought cynically, then grimaced as useless tears again threatened.

Erik tentatively swept around her and fiddled with the lock, pushed the door open, then jogged down the stairs again to bid Murray and Hale farewell. Christine drearily walked into the foyer and lowered her little son to the floor, removing his mittens and hat, and unfastened her cloak.

Strong arms suddenly wrapped around her waist, lifting her from the ground. She yelped in surprise and struggled against the grasp, her captor swinging her about the foyer in a swift circle, laughing merrily in her ear.

"_Joyeux Noël_, my darling girl!" the man cried, and lowered her to the ground, pulling her into a sturdy embrace. The Comtesse wormed her hands out of the tight grasp and pushed away from the bold gentleman. She stared up at him in complete and utter shock, vaguely aware of a door opening and closing behind her.

"What is the matter, my pretty Madame," the _avocat_ cooed. "Has my surprise left you speechless, or did I dislodge that wretched hard bustle you insist upon wearing?"

"H-Henri?" she cried, and the man laughed again, planting a kiss upon her white forehead.

"The very person, darling!" The _avocat_'s eyes darted from the flushed face of the Comtesse de Chagny to the masked man standing in the doorway, whose gaze was piercing, hard as stone. "I have decided to join you for your _Noël_ festivities. Are you not pleased?"

"_Merde_," Erik cursed under his breath.

**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	17. M David's Grievous Error

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for

**Side Notes:** **  
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_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)_

**In Which M. David Commits another Grievous Error**

"Are you not pleased to see me?" Henri David bowed elegantly over the Comtesse's bare hand and placed a feathery kiss on the back of it, his trim mustache tickling her knuckles. His lush brown hair fell across his eyes and he deftly tossed his head, flipping his glossy mane back into place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man at the door stiffen darkly.

Madame de Chagny gaped at the lawyer, unsure of how to respond to his blatant flirtation. Her mouth opened and closed several times in astonishment, until at last, she found her voice. "Henri, why are you here? And for that matter," the woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "how did you find us?"

A toothy grin spread across his face as he clung to the woman's hand. "_Mon Dieu_, Christine, you are a vision in green," he murmured, ignoring her question. "I have missed you—it was wrong of you to vanish from the face of this earth, without so much as a word to your poor, despairing _avocat_! When I heard that you were no longer residing in the house just off of Hyde Park, that this brute of a man—" he gestured back to Erik "—had whisked you away to God knows where, I became _extremely_—"

M. David, however, was not given the chance to finish his statement. The masked man pulled out the thin rope concealed beneath his black cloak and neatly whipped it around the lawyer's neck before he could resist. Pulling the lasso taut, the dark angel roughly shoved the startled man against the wall and firmly pinned him there, wrapping cold, spindly fingers about the man's throat. Fury flashed in Erik's eyes as he cruelly stared down at the lawyer, who was feebly struggling under his unyielding grasp.

"Did I not advise you, Monsieur, that the next time you staged any foolish stunts, I would kill you?" he sneered, his lips curled derisively.

Christine flung herself at her teacher in fear, grasping hold of his elbow. "Erik, I beg of you, do not hurt him. He means no harm!"

The quaking lawyer could only nod in mute agreement, too panicked to utter anything of coherence.

"Please release him, and we can discuss this! I am sure he has a rational explanation for his presence." The Comtesse pleaded with the masked man, struggling to pry his fingers off of the sputtering _avocat_'s throat. For a moment, she saw a flicker of indecision cross Erik's face. Then he deftly shook her hands away and silenced her with an icy glare.

"Do not be foolish, Madame de Chagny! Can you not see that even now, a throng of murderers could be camped outside the doors of this house, thanks to this asinine man?" He turned his face back to the terrified M. David and hissed into his ear. "I am warning you, tell me how you found us, or this moment shall be your last."

"No one has followed me, Monsieur, I swear to you!" the lawyer sputtered at last. "I was very cautious—"

A frightened yelp sounded from the stairs and diverted Erik's attention; he glanced towards the direction of the sound and discovered, to his horror, that Jean-Paul was still present, cowering behind the railing. Strife tore through him as he spoke lowly, his voice shaking with controlled rage.

"Christine," he murmured, his chilly stare still trained on the man under his grip, "I suggest that you remove your child from this room."

The mother's face blanched in alarm as she realized her young son had witnessed the violent scene. She quickly grabbed up her trembling child and dashed from the foyer, frantically calling up the staircase.

"Papi!"

She stumbled up the stairs, rounded the corner and almost flew headlong into the shocked servant, reeling back just before they collided. Placing her little son into the woman's arms, she hurried back through the hall, calling over her shoulder, "Please put him down for the night; I shall be along later." She then turned to Norry's room and rapped frantically upon the door.

No one answered.

"Norry, please, I need your help!" She called to him several times, until his graying head poked out from another room further down the way.

The old man looked at her in surprise, then concern, as he observed her wild-eyes and white face.

"Madame? I was just showing M. David's valet to his room. You remember Mas, of course—your husband's former manservant?" The lanky, solemn-faced valet peered out behind the caretaker and nodded to the woman.

"Madame Comtesse," Mas said quietly, absently smoothing his hands down his vest.

"A pleasure, Monsieur," she replied briskly, then turned back to the old man. "We have a situation downstairs that needs immediate attention, Norry. Perhaps M. Quennell can go through the rooms later." Not waiting for a reply, the woman raced through the hallway, Norry and the valet fast on her heels. She dashed back down the stairs and froze halfway as Erik, now in her line of vision, pounded the wall with his fist just to the left of the petrified man's head.

"That is a lie, Monsieur—I do not believe that Nadir Khan told you how to find us!" he cried furiously, his face contorting with fury. "Now, once and for all, _who told you where we were_!"

The Comtesse's breath caught in her throat, and she was only vaguely aware of M. David's valet rushing past her, down the stairs, to his employer's rescue. The servant hurled himself into Erik's midsection, throwing the startled man to the floor. And then the entire confrontation erupted into chaos as the three men, then Norry, tumbled about the tiled marble floor of the entryway, their fists flying, elbows jabbing at ribs, chins, whatever they could make contact with.

Christine wavered on the stairwell, started forward twice to stop the brawl, then held back again as she watched the scene unfold before her. M. David and his valet struggled to subdue a livid phantom. The old caretaker was endeavoring to force his way between the two riled men and Erik; who, with the skill of a cat, deftly spun out from under the three men. He grabbed M. David by the collar of his expensive linen shirt, brought his arm back and solidly punched the _avocat_ across the chin, flooring the man with one powerful blow. And then Mas' fist connected with Erik's mouth, sending a splatter of red blood across the white of mask. The blow skewed the porcelain barrier between his face and the world, exposing a thin strip of twisted flesh along his hairline.

The woman watched in agony as her angel tore away from the pile of limbs and turned his back to his stunned opponents, properly replacing the mask. Even from her perch upon the stairs, she could see the murderous gleam in her dark angel's eyes—a sight that was burned in her mind since that heartbreaking night four years ago at the opera house. He stooped to pick up the discarded bit of rope and twined the end around his wrist, his thirst for revenge unmistakable with every step.

Without pausing to think upon the consequences, Christine flew down the rest of the stairs and flung her body against her angel. Pressing her palms to either side of his face, she pulled his searing gaze down to meet the troubled blue of her eyes. "My angel, if you harm any of them, I swear that I shall cut you from my soul and never think upon you again. I beg of you, _do not do this_!"

Some inscrutable emotion flashed through Erik's gold eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone. A small trickle of red streamed from his mouth and down his neck, the crisp white collar of his shirt soaking it up. He calmly licked his lips and smirked as the girl's wide eyes.

"My dear," he whispered, coolly extracting her hands from his bloody face, "do you really know so little of me, that you would believe I'd blindly kill any poor wretch that crossed my path? I assure you, if I had intended to murder your precious _avocat_ and his fool of a servant, I would have done so by now." He glared at the three men over the Comtesse's shoulder, daring them to interfere; not one of them stirred from their stationary spots upon the floor. Then his fingers tightened about her wrist and she winced in pain.

"Such cruel and idle threats do not suit you, Christine," he said smoothly, tugging the girl along behind him as he swiftly climbed the stairs. "You know as well as I do that you shall remember me every day of your life until the moment you breathe your last; and even then you may not forget. No matter how much you try to tear my spirit from the depths of you, try to shut my music from your mind as you have these past four years, you cannot, can you? It haunts your dreams, even after you wake. It wraps its icy fingers about your heart and inspires such fear and passion that you force yourself to stifle the one thing that can give it release—your voice. My voice."

Her maestro threw open the door to her bedroom and swung his protégé inside, then firmly closed it behind him, careless of impropriety. He stalked over to the mahogany armoire and began to yank her dresses from their hangers, gathering the blues, greens and burgundies into his arms. Dumping the pile of clothing onto her bed, he moved swiftly about the room, collecting her accessories, perfumes, undergarments, everything that she currently possessed, and tossed them on the quilt next to the dresses. A lovely, striped blue gown caught his eye, and he paused for a moment, pensively fingering the dress he had had delivered to her; her first dress after her period of mourning.

"Erik, what are you doing?" Christine questioned softly, watching in silence as the masked man shoved the dress into a tapestried valise.

Erik struggled to steer his mind away from the throbbing wound at his midsection as he crammed the rest of her belongings into the bag. It would not do to ask the woman to rebandage his side; not when his blood boiled just under the surface, rage still simmered from the fight. "I should think that apparent, my angel—I am packing your things for you. You had best tell the Nitots to do the same, for we shall be leaving within the hour. If they are not prepared, they will be left to fend for themselves."

"Are we…leaving for Jerusalem tonight?" she whispered incredulously. "But what about _Noël_, and closing the house…"

The man sighed in exasperation and brushed a hand across his bleeding mouth, absently smearing his chin with blood. "No, you shall not leave for Jerusalem until Nadir Khan arrives in London and I return to Paris, as planned. I will be taking you to Hale's residence until we decide what needs to be done. Any plans you made for _Noël_ will have to be forgone, unless you want to celebrate at his home."

Christine solemnly nodded in agreement and crossed the room to the door that separated her from her sleeping child. She peered into the dimly-lit room and saw that Papi was still seated in the rocker next to Jean-Paul's bed, calmly reflecting upon some distant thought.

"I suppose you heard what was just said, Papi," the Comtesse whispered, startling the woman from her reverie.

The maid stared at the shadows flickering upon the wall. "Yes," she murmured. "Madame, I know that I swore to follow wherever you decided to go, but Jerusalem is far away…" She leaned back in the rocker and glanced over her mistress' shoulder into the other room, assuring herself that the masked man was out of hearing range. "I do not mean to openly question your judgment, Madame—only offer a suggestion, if I may. Perhaps you should consider asking M. David for his help. With his connections, he could assist you in such a way that we might be able to return to France."

Christine's face went white again and she quietly slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. She lowered herself onto the edge of her son's bed, careful not to jostle the sleeping boy.

"Papi, she whispered, "you sent for Henri, didn't you?"

The maid nodded. "Yes. The evening after I found that…noose in your Erik's room. Please do not tell him what I have done! Forgive me for interfering, but I do not trust him, Madame. I cannot. Furthermore, I do not believe that it is wise to move into an entirely different culture, a foreign way of life, with no preparation, no instruction."

The Comtesse pressed her fingers to her temples and slowly exhaled, trying to clear her head. "I will not tell him," she murmured firmly, "but I daresay he has already figured out how Henri came to discover our location. We shall, however, leave for Jerusalem as planned. And I suggest that you not tell M. David of it, for any knowledge he has regarding our whereabouts can only endanger him, as well as us. Please let your father know of our departure, as soon as possible. That is all." The woman elegantly rose from the bed and brushed past her friend. As an afterthought, she turned back to the desolate maid.

"Would you please bring up two glasses of wine, Papi, before you begin packing? I shall try to soothe Erik's temper, and perhaps he shall not be hard on you when you tell him about your letter to Henri."

The servant nodded and left the room, retreating down the stairs and into the sanctuary of her kitchen.

* * *

Papi leaned heavily against the pantry door, shutting her eyes against the overwhelming anxiety that was rooting itself in her chest. Her mind raced through all possible courses of action, trying to settle on some miracle solution before her hour had passed and they were forced to leave the town home.

_Something must be done…we cannot go to Jerusalem and put our lives completely into the hands of an utter stranger—and the friend of this phantom, no less!_ Papi shook her head at the mere thought of it.

"I shall never go to Jerusalem," she breathed with resolution. Crossing over to the oven, she put out the flames, pulled out the half-baked bread, then removed the stewing _Mirepoix_ from the hot surface of the stove.

"Jerusalem?" came a quiet voice from the darkened corner of the kitchen. "Is that where he plans to send you? This cannot happen—we must prevent this somehow." M. David leaned forward on his elbows, the red glow of the oil lamp illuminating his face. Even with the shadows playing upon his features, Papi could see that his right eye was already purple and swollen from the brawl she had heard from the confines of Jean-Paul's room.

"That is exactly what I was pondering, Monsieur," the maid breathed with relief, her answer manifesting itself in the form of this man. "Whatever help you can offer, I will gladly take. But I must warn you, Madame Comtesse will not go willingly. This wicked man has weaved some sort of spell over her; she trusts the words of a madman and killer above those of her friends."

The maid left the room for several minutes then returned bearing two crystal goblets and a red _Bourgogne_ wine. She removed the cork and poured a bit into each glass, took out a serving tray, then set the glasses and bottle upon it. As she walked past the _avocat_, he lightly grasped her elbow and she paused, not quite sure what to do.

"Did you want something more, Monsieur? A drink, perhaps?" she questioned nervously, suddenly becoming uncomfortable in the man's solemn presence, a disposition so unlike the normally cheerful _avocat_.

He slowly pulled his hand away and motioned for her to set the tray down. "Does she love him, do you think?" he questioned softly. The maid sighed and sat next to the young man.

"I believe that she is drawn to him—whether it is love or not, I cannot say; she has not confided in me on that point." M. David searched the woman's face. A greater question seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, and he studied his trim fingers for a long while, carefully thinking over his words. At last he raised his eyes to the soft brown of the maid's, searching for some unknown answer.

"In your letter, you said that if I cared for Raoul de Chagny and his widow as you do, I would help. Since the Comtesse herself did not write to me, I had already come to the conclusion that perhaps she did not desire my assistance. Are you sure, Papi, that she would not leave willingly if I asked her to return to Paris with me?"

The young woman nodded. "She is determined to go to Jerusalem, with or without Father and I."

"Very well, then." The lawyer reached into his vest pocket and slowly withdrew a small white piece of paper, folded several times and secured with a seal. He toyed with the packet reluctantly, then slid his finger under the wax and opened the parchment as carefully as if he were opening Pandora's box. Folding the corners back, he revealed a small amount of a white powdery substance resting in the crease. He raised the paper above the wine glasses and tapped a bit of the powder into each drink, watching as the substance dissolved into the red liquid.

"This will not hurt either one of them, Papi," he whispered lowly, squeezing the woman's hand reassuringly. "They will drink the wine, then fall asleep almost instantly. Each glass has enough of the substance in it to render them unconscious for a good hour. This should give us plenty of time to remove Madame de Chagny and Jean-Paul to an inn where I have made arrangements, without this dreadful man following us."

Papi's eyes widened in disbelief. "And then? When the Comtesse awakes, she will not docilely return to Paris. It will be a struggle to convince her to leave this man behind," the woman questioned warily, entirely uncomfortable with the lawyer's plan. "Perhaps we should go to Jerusalem. After all, that man will not be going with us…"

M. David shook his head and grasped the woman's shoulders, forcing her to meet his warm eyes. "Papi, there is no other way," he cajoled in his finely honed, persuasive voice. "If you go to Jerusalem, you shall be at the mercy of this man, even more so than now—completely dependent on him through his puppet, Monsieur Khan. You would simply be exchanging the fear of the _People's Will_ for another fear. This man is playing upon your paranoia, using your fright as a means of control—this is what he does, for I have experienced it myself! No, it is best to return to Paris, face the _Narodnaya Volya_ openly and bring them to justice; they cannot harm you if others are watching. Think of your little Perri—"

"Enough!" Papi cried before the _avocat_ could speak of her murdered child. "You need not cruelly remind me of my loss, M. David, to stir up my desire for revenge and justice. I shall do as you ask, just this once, though it will surely cost me the Comtesse's trust. But please, do not ask me to deceive her again, for I shall not do it." She lifted the tray and tersely brushed past the man.

Conflict stirred in the young woman's breast as she silently made her way through the dark halls and up the stairs, carefully balancing the tray so wine would not slosh out of the glasses. She reached her mistress' rooms and paused in trepidation, her hands shaking so badly that the crystal bases of the goblets rattled against the silver of the tray. Drawing a shaky breath, she murmured a brief prayer for strength, slowly shifted her burden into one hand, and rapped upon the heavy wooden door.

* * *

Christine silently pulled the door shut to her son's bedroom, then glanced about her suite to find that her angel was no longer packing her belongings, but had settled into the small cream-colored armchair next to her window. A linen handkerchief was pressed to his mouth, the starched white material already ruined by red splotches of blood. At the slight rustle of her dress, he turned towards her; the woman saw, for the first time, the blood splattered and smeared across his face and mask, the outline of her palm still imprinted upon his cheek.

Saying nothing, she took a cloth from her bathroom and held it under the tap until it was soaked through. Wringing out the excess water, she returned to her angel and sat on the arm of the chair, quietly studying his face. Upon a cursory glance, his anger seemed to have drained away during her brief absence, for his demeanor was calm and reflective. As she looked more closely, however, she saw that the fist holding the handkerchief to his mouth was clenched so tightly that his knuckles were a pale white…that his heart was beating so rapidly, the veins on the inside of his wrist were throbbing.

Smiling faintly, she brushed two fingers along his jawline and gently turned his bloody face to meet hers. She raised the damp cloth to his cheek and slowly began to wipe away the blood that had dried there. To her surprise, he did not flinch at her touch, but closed his eyes and relaxed his rigid features.

"Did Mas cut your lip when he hit you?" the woman murmured, pulling away the man's hand to study the jagged gash on the side of his mouth.

A slit of gold flashed beneath his hooded lids as he glanced up at her words. "I believe he wore some sort of ring."

Ever so carefully, the girl washed each contour of her angel's face: his neck, jaw, hairline, eyes and mouth, until the only bit of red left was the fresh blood still trickling from his lip. Then she moved to the other side of the armchair, wiped the cool cloth across the thin porcelain of his white mask and performed the same ritual, the symbolism of her gesture not lost upon the masked man.

When Christine had completed her task, she tossed the ruined washcloth away and knelt next to her angel's chair, resting her head upon his knee.

"I am sorry for what I said in the foyer, my angel," she whispered. "I was afraid. Not so much for Henri, in truth, but for you."

The man gently rested his hand upon her soft neck and continued to gaze upon the clear Decembernight, listening to her soft voice.

"When shall you let go of your bitterness and hatred, Erik?"

She felt his hand stiffen slightly at her question, then relax again into her curls.

"When shall you sing again, Christine?" he quietly replied.

Asoft rap stirred the pair from their somber reflection and Christine rose to open the bedroom door, standing back to allow the servant into the room. Papi swiftly walked past the woman, her face pale and hands trembling as she clutched the silver tray. She quickly set the wine glasses and bottle upon the small glossy table in the corner, and turned to leave again, her eyes averted to the ground.

The Comtesse called out a small thank you and the maid paused in turmoil, her mouth opened as if to say something. She closed it again, however, choosing to simply nod and hastily retreat from the room.

Christine lifted the crystal goblets from the table and sauntered back to her maestro, reclaiming her position on the arm of his chair. She saw the corner of his swollen mouth twitch slightly as she pressed a glass into his hands, only guessing at what had amused him. He toyed with the stem a bit, swirling the dark wine around the inside of the goblet, then let it settle again.

"Is this to still my nerves, my dear, or 'soothe my temper' as you put it?" Erik smirked. "Or have you simply chosen to do away with me in one deft swoop?" He lifted the rim to his bruised mouth and gingerly sipped the liquid, the headiness of the burgundy leaving a distinct taste upon his tongue. His brow furrowed and he took another small drink, this time letting his senses soak up the taste and texture of the wine. Yes, there was indeed something off in consistency of the _Bourgogne_.

_Something distinctly metallic, like…_

The man's face paled, and he lowered the goblet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine raise the glass to her lips and his hand came up quickly, grasping hold of her wrist. Sloshing wine onto her dress, she turned to the man in surprise.

"Erik, what—"

"What is this wine, Christine?" he interrupted, pulling the glass from her fingers. He inhaled the bitter fragrance of the drink and found that hers, too, had an odd metallic quality. Cursing soundly, the masked man leapt from the armchair and stalked over to the wine bottle, turning the label out—_Grand Cru, Gevrey-Chambertin_—nothing unusual there. He waved the opening under his nose and inhaled—the strange element was missing from the bottle. Someone had added it after the wine was poured…

And then he noticed it—an odd, tingling sensation was filtering into his brain, just behind his eyes. His fingertips began to go numb…

"Leave quickly," he murmured, fighting back the fuzziness that was rapidly spreading through his mind. The room started to swim and he pressed a palm to his eyes, desperately struggling to keep Christine's face in focus.

The girl remained rooted to the floor, her eyes wide with shock.

"Take your son and run away, Christine. Now!" he firmly commanded as waves of nausea quickly swept over him. His knees began to give way and he crumpled to the floor, still fighting to push himself up with his elbows. And then he collapsed upon the cold wooden floor, succumbing to inevitable darkness.

The woman stared in mute horror at the man lying at her feet, her joints temporarily frozen in place. A strangled cry rose up from her throat and she sprinted from the room into the black hallway, frantically calling for help.

"Norry, Henri! Someone, please!" She rounded the corner and flew towards her servants' quarters, stumbling several times on the green velvet trim of her dress. She pounded her fist upon the ground and pushed herself up just as a strong arm came about her waist, pulling her to her feet. Whirling around to face the arm's owner, she looked into the puzzled face of M. David. Relief flooded through her veins; she grabbed his wrist and pulled the startled _avocat_ back through the dark passages towards her bedroom.

"Christine! What are you—that is, what has happened?" he cried, tripping over his words.

"The wine—Erik drank some of it, then collapsed! I do not know if he is ill, or—oh God—if he is dead!" We need a doctor, some sort of assistance…Hale! We could send for Hale—he would know what to do…Please God, do not let him be dead…"

The girl babbled on incoherently as they raced into the room, then fell to her knees next to the unconscious man. She pressed her palm to his mouth, then to the hollow of his neck, checking for any signs of life. Releasing the breath she held in her lungs, she murmured a prayer of thanks and lifted her eyes to the man standing above her.

"Henri, he needs a doctor but I don't know where to find one. Could you…"

Her words trailed away as she observed a peculiar glistening in the man's eyes, some strange flicker of emotion akin to—what was it?—trepidation, regret…guilt, perhaps?

A nagging, almost ludicrous idea gripped her mind, but as the lawyer made no move to leave for a doctor, the thought slowly became a reality. Suddenly, the pieces came together.

"You…_You_ poisoned him, didn't you? And you tried to poison me, as well, but I didn't drink it—that's why you were startled to find me in the hallway…He kept me from drinking it…" She turned back to the man sprawled upon the floor and tenderly traced his jawline with her fingertip. "Why would you do this?"

"Christine, please," the lawyer sputtered, his dark eyes pleading with the woman. "The drug is only temporary—he will wake soon. And I wanted you unconscious as well, because I needed time to—well—" The _avocat_ lowered his gaze to the ground, scuffing the boards with the toe of his fine shoe. "There is no other way out of this situation—surely you see that? All you need do is give the oath to me, and I shall return it. They have promised to leave you in peace if you do so, and you can go back to your home in Paris. No more threats, no more deaths…this will all be over."

And then comprehension hit her with the force of a brutal gale. Madame de Chagny's face went ashen at the man's words; she rocked back on her knees, putting a hand to the floor to brace her wavering body, her mind keeling over and over in disbelief. As his explanation slowly sank in, another emotion took hold of her—her insides knotted as feelings of betrayal pervaded every cell of her body. She slowly straightened her back and turned a frosty gaze upon the man…_her friend…her confidant_…

"You vile, wretched Judas," the Comtesse murmured. "You have sold my family and I to this group of monsters to save your own neck. They came to you in Paris, didn't they? What did they promise you, Henri—a higher social status? Perhaps a chateau in Beaujolais or a larger spending account?" she spat, a hysterical tone tingeing her voice. "How could you do this do Raoul? How could you do this _to his son_?"

The lawyer raised his hands feebly. "They have promised me nothing except my life, yours, and that of the young Comte's. This, in exchange for the oath of _Fraternité_."

The woman shook her head in incredulity. "You utter fool. Don't you think that if I was in possession of this—whatever it is they want—I would have given it to them long ago, for Jean-Paul's sake? I am afraid that they shall have your life after all, M. David; I do not have this…oath."

A hand came around her head and roughly pressed against her mouth, muffling her cry of astonishment. Before she could resist, her small frame was lifted from the ground and slammed against the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. She wheezed in pain as the shock of the blow coursed through her back, shoulders and head, and she crumpled to the floor in agony. Calloused fingers wrapped around the delicate curve of her throat and lifted her up again, pinning her to the wall. The man lowered his foul mouth to her shoulder and pressed his cracked lips to her soft skin.

The Comtesse's eyes fluttered open and through her blurred vision, saw the face of her attacker…his thin pale lips twisted malevolently. Mas. The shrouded man from the Paris brougham attack. _Why did I not recognize him before?_ A tear trickled down her cheek as she squeezed her lids shut, the helplessness of her predicament and the violent pain that swept through her taking its toll on her reeling mind. Somewhere beyond the powerful form of her captor, she heard Henri's voice call out in protest.

"Really, M. Quennell, this is completely unnecessary! Your brotherhood swore to me that Madame de Chagny would remain unharmed. I demand that you release her at once, or—"

"Or what?" the valet hissed in flawless, accentless French. He turned his rage-filled face from the woman. "She does not have _Fraternité'_s oath; she said as much, herself. You may be unaware of this, M. David, but I have been given instructions that you are not privy to." He put his mouth to the frightened woman's ear, his breath hot and putrid.

"Now, my Lady Comtesse, you know what I am capable of after our playful banter on the _Place de l'Opera_. Did it never occur to you that the viper that terrorized you nested in your very household?" He laughed cruelly as the woman grimaced at his disclosure. "Your husband's own valet—stalking him, bullying him, leaving threatening notes about his grounds then watching with pleasure as he tossed each one into the fireplace and made me swear not to tell a soul. And then the final touch—the Comte de Chagny's slow…miserable…death. A 'crab in his belly', the doctor had called it. 'No cure'. And all that time, if he had just ceased to drink his nightly glass of _Chablis.._."

"No," Christine murmured, struggling to turn her face away and shut out the horror. Dear God, she had never known the extent…never understood the true danger her family was in. Even her young husband had not comprehended the lengths to which _they_ would go, this cryptic _Fraternité_.

Erik had understood, though. He had fought to protect her, taken her burden upon his shoulders so she could rest peacefully one more night…

"But I digress. You do not have the oath; therefore, you must die. And your son."

"NO!" The _avocat, _who had remained silent and aloof during the entire exchange suddenly barreled towards Mas. In one swift motion, the valet released his grip on Christine's throat and sidestepped the attacker, hurling the panicked man to the ground. Allowing the Comtesse to sink to the floor and clutch at her midsection, he pressed his foot against M. David's neck and sneered at his miserable efforts.

"Valiant, brave rescues do not become you, Henri." M. Quennell sighed. "I cannot kill you, however; your brother, the Marquis, shall object strongly to that. And you may be of some use to us yet. Consider this your final warning, Monsieur." The valet brought his hand down upon the back of the _avocat_'s head, knocking him senseless. Turning his cold eyes back to the woman, he observed her still frame and terrified expression.

"Tut, my dear Comtesse de Chagny. You did not even try to escape!" His smiled at her, his thin lips twisting cruelly. "I should not be too concerned, Madame; what you suffer from is more than likely temporary paralysis. That, however, is neither here nor there, as you shall be dead in a moment's time."

Struggling to swallow back the bile in her throat, Christine stared at her murdered husband's "loyal" valet in bewilderment. She pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the floor, fighting to maintain consciousness.

"Who are you, Mas?" she whispered, her voice raspy from the blow against the wall. "You are Russian, aren't you? One of the _Narodnaya Volya_?"

Another wicked chortle burst forth from the man, his cold eyes crinkling as if she had told an amusing tale. "The _Narodnaya Volya_? Ha! They are mere pawns, Madame; another pathetic group of revolutionaries with lofty ideals and no brains to accomplish them. Without us, their names would never have been remembered." He smirked again. "No, I am not Russian, although I was raised in St. Petersburg—an exile. I assure you, however, that every single drop of blood within me is French."

M. Quennell spun away from the Comtesse and meandered about the room, coming to a halt over Erik's still form. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "This foray to London has afforded me another great pleasure; I was finally able to meet the clever bastard that has been assisting you since your brilliant escape from Paris. Did you know that we had fifteen men watching the _Opéra Populaire_, and not one of them spotted your escape? You must have walked directly past them!" The valet issued a swift kick to the masked man's torso, dislodging his black evening jacket in the process. He caught sight of the length of rope coiled at the man's waist and shaking his head, bent to retrieve it.

"I heard how he killed that _People's Will_ radical in the Kensington alleyway—no small feat. The Russian was a trained assassin." Mas ran his skeletal fingers along the thin lasso, as if caressing it. His voice became low, wicked.

"Wouldn't it be tragic if your lover were to murder you and your child, then take his own life?"

_No…_

Christine madly tried to muster any reserves of strength she had left in her body, laboring to lift the gauzy veil that was wrapped about her mind. "The oath, Monsieur!" she cried desperately. The man stocked towards her, twining the punjab lasso around his wrist as he had observed its owner do. "You do not have the oath yet, and if you kill me—"

Her pleas were cut short as her attacker knelt down and whipped the noose about her white neck.

"My dear Comtesse," he murmured hotly into her ear, "I truly believe that you do not have it."

The rope tightened about her neck, instantly constricting her airway. A scream rose up in her throat and she opened her mouth to loose it, but all that emerged was a strangled, hideous, gasping sound. Christine felt a solid heaviness press down upon her, suffocating her as the lasso was pulled taut.

_

* * *

So this is how I shall die. How peculiarly fitting._

_A dull roar sounds behind my ears…face hot, flushing from exertion, neck muscles straining up and up, fighting vainly for one last breath of precious air…_

_Air…_

_Just one breath…my mouth opens and closes as I gasp for the breath that will not come…my body helpless under the one who overpowers me…_

_And now dizziness, waves of nausea…head aches as it is slowly starved for oxygen…hands flail about, scratching, clutching at something, anything to pull the rope away…_

…_the rope…it digs, burns into my flesh until it bleeds…I can feel the blood, running down my face, into my eyes…I open my eyes and see only blurry light through a haze a red…_

…_crushing my chest under the weight…lungs are on fire, consumed by the flames in my throat, licking down my windpipe…_

_Time passes…yet there is no time…each second an hour of torment…minutes slide away, and now the blackness is coming, reaching out with its icy, shadowy fingers, pulling me into its embrace…_

_It shall end soon…Death is calling to me. When the darkness overtakes me, this pain will be no more. _

…_how strange that I feel nothing but peace as the life leaves my body…what is there to fear in death…has not my angel already shown me how beautiful the darkness can be?_

_Jean-Paul…_

_Erik…_

_Know that I love you. _

_For as I am dying, my one comfort is that I die with your rope about my throat…_

* * *

Somewhere, far away in the fading plain, a shot rang, then a cry. Her arms fell limp upon the ground, and she knew no more.**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	18. To Breathe Again

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for the creepy boat. I own the creepy boat :)

**Side Notes:** **  
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_Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)_

**To Breathe Again**

A storm was rolling in.

The young girl sat upon a white, craggy rock overlooking the inlet. To either side of her, jagged brown cliffs stretched forth, then dropped away as they met the ocean. She could see layer upon layer of massive gray clouds pillaring up from the water into the steely sky, the light of day barely shining through their denseness. The white-capped waves beat upon the shoreline and delved through the dry hills of sand, whittling them into odd shapes as the water skimmed up, then down, the beach.

A gust of wind swept around her perch, thrashing through the golden reeds and whipping the dark curls about her head. She tucked her bare feet under her skirts and pulled her cape tightly about her, then lifted her face to feel the chill breeze upon her cheeks and throat. The salty sea air cooled her flesh and thrilled her senses, easing the desperate pain which had gripped her body just moments before.

Why had she been afraid? She could remember nothing of the events that had brought her to this peaceful place…only that she had been steeped in fear of something which no longer existed in this blissful plain of memories.

_Yes, this is what this is…a memory…_

A fishing boat skimmed along the silvery coastline, and she watched its progress with curiosity.

She had been to this place …

This was the Brittany coast of her youth—the green hills dotted with limestone boulders, the restless ebb and flow of the tide, the sea-kissed air. How many countless summer days had she played in those waves, dug her bare toes into the cold, wet sand?

Yet she had never stood here before. The tucked-away inlet had an unfamiliar, ageless aura about it that led her to believe it had existed since the beginning of the earth. And at the same time, it had never existed at all.

She reached down from her rocky perch and scooped up a handful of fine white sand, let it sift through her fingers, and watched as the wind swirled it about and scattered it across the beach. A few granules glinted in the soft gray light of day. There was no sun in the sky, though; no one source served to illuminate the panorama before her. The cliffs, rocks, reeds…even the tiniest grain of sand was alive with some source of pure light that came not from the sky, but within each object.

_No, this is not a memory…for my feeble mind could never create a place so far beyond my understanding. This is something greater…_

Time…

There was no such thing in this restful haven. The fishing boat again caught her attention, and she followed its movement as it skimmed along the shore. She strained to see the crew aboard the ship, watching for any movement of sailors hauling fish-laden nets up the sides and onto the deck, or a first mate at the helm, steadily steering his vessel through the choppy waters. There was nothing; not even the flash of a face or the wave of a hand. Then with a start, she realized the boat seemed to have no destination, no urgency to return to the harbor before the storm could overtake it.

The storm…

Even as the massive gray clouds churned just beyond the shore, somehow she knew that they would never reach land …that the rain-tinged breeze blowing about her would never strengthen to the full force of the gale hovering upon the choppy emerald waters. There was no sense of urgency about it, either.

Any anxiety she had felt in her strange surroundings flooded from her. What was time, after all, but a mere human invention, squelching the spirit with the heavy burden of responsibility? If time did not exist here, she would not mourn its absence. The girl leapt from her rock and flung her arms about in the air, her soft bare feet carrying her to the ocean's edge. Easing her toes into the wet sand, she carefully traced letters into the surface…C…H…R… With a final flourish, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

_CHRISTINE DAAÉ_

The girl laughed with glee as the cold waves swept up the shore and swirled about her heels, gradually eroding her name. She ran along the shoreline, stumbling every now and again as an unexpectedly strong wave crashed into her legs, spraying salty water upon her arms and face. She chased it back into the ocean, then sprinted up the shore as the tide rolled in again.

Breathing heavily from her play, she meandered along the coastline until she reached her small inlet. Making her way up to her rock, she paused every now and then to wipe away the sand that was clumping upon her wet feet and legs. She plopped down on the cool stone and shook her wild dark curls about, running her fingers through the damp tangles to work out the sand that had found its way to her scalp. With a happy sigh, she leaned upon one elbow and waited for the fishing boat to again appear upon the horizon.

The rhythmic lapping of the waves, the whistling of the grass in the wind lent a rustic tone to her surroundings; an old Breton _hanter dros_ her father had often played began to swirl about in her head. Without a second thought, she raised her chin and opened her mouth, letting the lilting dance melody spin forth and resonate in the air…

_Quand j'étais jeune à dix-huit ans  
J'étais belle et galante o-gué.  
Quand j'étais jeune à dix-huit ans  
J'étais belle et galante!_

She sang verse after verse, smiling at the nonsensical lyrics as she drummed her fingers lightly upon the rock.

_On fit venir un medécin  
De Paris ou de Nantes o-gué,  
On fit venir un medécin  
De Paris ou de Nantes._

A movement just to the left drew her gaze down along the coastline. Her eyes fell upon the form of a young boy, no more than ten or eleven, with golden hair and a carefree gait. Her breath caught in her throat when the child made his way up the hill towards her rocky bend, his blue eyes catching hers; those clear, beautiful eyes that had smiled at her many times before, crinkling with familiar laughter.

_Raoul…_

The boy nodded in response…had she spoken his name aloud? He flicked a damp lock of hair from his forehead and smiled again, his eyes teasing…

His eyes…

As she again lost herself in the depths of them, she realized that they too possessed the same ageless, timeless quality that inspired her surroundings. His eyes…no longer tinged with the sorrows of the world, infused with a wisdom that she could not grasp.

"Christine Daaé," he laughed, "You sound like an angel!" Raoul pulled his hand from behind his back, revealing her lovely red scarf, ruined by the salty waters all those years ago. Standing before her, he gently laid the soft bit of material over her shoulders and stepped back to examine her.

"Had you forgotten this?" he smiled. Touching his finger lightly to her cheek, he seated himself next to her upon the craggy rock and joined her in wordless companionship.

She was content to be with him upon the cliff, watching the storm brewing on the horizon. The fishing boat skimmed across the silver waters again, this time in the opposite direction. They sat in silence—perhaps forever, perhaps for a moment—pleased to feel the breeze upon their faces, to listen to it whistle through the hollow golden reeds about them.

"Raoul," the girl whispered softly, "is this death?"

The boy smiled slightly, his gaze riveted upon the shore. "Perhaps, but not in the sense you refer to, Christine." He absently ran his fingers along the mossy surface of the rock, patiently thinking through his words.

"Death is not real, you know—it is merely an illusion, a transition. There is nothing to fear in it, for one never truly dies." His eyes turned to hers, reading the confusion in them. He waved his hand about, gesturing to their peaceful inlet. "All of this—this place—it is fleeting, just as life is. As much as you may wish to, you cannot remain here in this endless limbo…waiting for a storm that shall never arrive, a boat that shall never dock. You must choose either to go on, or return…"

Christine met his gaze, searching for answers to questions she did not even know how to voice. Somewhere beyond the hills, the familiar sound of a violin sounded upon the air, its sweet, sorrowful voice calling her home from her time at the coast. She closed her eyes; a wave of longing swept through her, her Father's song tugging at her senses. Her heart constricted within her chest. Was it possible that she could sit at his feet again as he told her beautiful stories of her homeland? Her voice would join his violin in song; Raoul would sit next to her, a warm fire crackling just beyond, casting shadows about the cozy room. Just beyond the hill, waiting for her…

"Little Lotte," the boy whispered softly, "come with me." He held out his hand to hers, his ageless eyes filled with love. She hesitated for a moment, staring down at the small fingers patiently waiting for her decision.

_Christine!…_

The voice suddenly tore through her mind, ripped to her very soul. Her angel's voice, twisted and contorted with agony, wretched with a despair she had never heard before, never knew could exist. The cry—such a disparity to the peaceful crash of the waves, the rustling of the tall grass—came to her from some place far beyond the inlet and burrowed into her psyche, reaching into the depths of her spirit. She put her hands to her ears to keep from hearing it. But no matter how she tried to shut it away, to keep it from drowning out the call of the violin, she heard him still… hopeless in his suffering.

And then all was clear. She knew she did not have to ask any questions, for the answers were irrelevant—all was irrelevant, save for the choice resting upon her shoulders.

_The choice…_

Even _it_ no longer mattered, for there was no longer a decision to be made. For Christine, to go beyond the hill would be, in a sense, to return—return to her past, to a time when she was safe and protected, when her spirit was innocent and carefree.

But she found that the past was something she no longer ached for. She could cherish it, learn from it, but she was not ready to become a part of it. Not until Jean-Paul had grown into a man and had children of his own. Not until Erik rested peacefully in her arms, his demons purged from his soul. The siren of life called to her—it had not yet relinquished its claim upon her spirit.

Her child needed a mother; and her angel, forgiveness.

"Raoul," she whispered, the irrevocability of her decision weighing heavily upon her. "I love him."

Christine's eyes once again sought his, pleading with him for understanding. She found, to her surprise, that there was no disappointment within them, no sadness. The knowing wisdom within their depths shone through, glistening with approval. The boy took her hand, lightly squeezing it as he pulled her to her feet.

"Little Lotte, you _are _brave," he laughed. "Your road is not an easy one, but the sights and sounds along the way shall be magnificent." He ran a hand through his damp blonde hair; his wide, toothy grin spread across his face as he took in her serious expression. He delicately tapped the tip of her nose, drawing a wisp of a smile to her lips.

"Christine Daaé, do not forget—there is no sin so great, it cannot be forgiven." The smile suddenly drained from his face, and his eyes met hers with gravity. "That is not to say, however, there are no consequences for these offenses. If you truly desire to save him, you must help your angel to face himself; there is no other way."

The girl solemnly nodded, a cold gust of sea air sending a shiver up her back.

She watched as the boy brought her fingers to his lips, softly kissed them, then squeezed her hand and let it fall back to her side. He turned away and began to make his way down the hill. Christine reached out for his arm uncertainly and grasped his elbow, spinning him about before he could leave.

His eyes studied her anxious face, questions looming in the ageless blue.

"Raoul, she whispered, "I don't know what to do."

The boy's eyes crinkled again as he smiled, and he placed his palm to her heart. "You will know."

Her eyes held the intelligent depths of his for a moment, giving voice to all of the things she wanted to say, but could not. At last, she spoke.

"There is so much—" she murmured, her voice breaking with emotion. "Jean-Paul. I wish that you could be there, could know him—"

Raoul shook his head, silencing her. "I do, Christine."

The woman closed her eyes at his words. A single tear slid down her face, and she felt it cool in the stormy wind whipping about and blowing through her, bringing a sense of finality.

_Christine!…_

And then the air became warm, filtering through her body, into her lungs. Ever so slowly, the pain from before snaked through her limbs, her torso, up into her throat, searing her with its hot touch. She felt a mouth upon hers, warm and damp as it breathed into her again, forcing hot air into her lungs. The voice spoke, still piercing her heart with its anguish.

"Christine! Oh God, do not leave me alone here on this earth, not without —"

She felt her angel brush his fingers over her face, through her hair, desperate to draw forth some sign of consciousness from her bruised body. His mouth covered hers again and he breathed precious life into her, giving the air that her aching lungs cried for.

The woman's mind began to reconnect with her body as she desperately commanded her lungs to work, her chest to rise. The strained muscles of her neck sprang to life and her burning, swollen windpipe opened, allowing the oxygen that had been denied for so long. She gasped when it filtered throughout her lungs, her limbs, into her brain, painfully freezing her dry throat with an icy rush.

Just above her, Christine heard her angel's cry of relief as her body came to life. A harsh cough rattled through her chest painfully, causing her to choke as her swollen throat constricted again; too weak to roll onto her side, she struggled to lift her head. Hands firmly pushed her back to the ground, and she felt his fingertips probe about her raw neck, feel along her spine. Then strong arms came about her shoulders and carefully turn her so she could breathe more easily. She coughed and coughed, desperately sucking in air between the spasms that raked through her. Eventually, the coughing gradually receded to a shrill wheezing, leaving her weak with the effort to breathe.

Long, comforting fingers gently brushed back the strands of hair clinging to her forehead, then traced along her hairline. The girl forced her eyes open; through a blurry haze of red, she saw Erik's tear-streaked face gazing down upon her, his golden eyes brimming with both joy and grief. His disheveled black hair hung wildly about his pale face and mask, so unlike his usually immaculate appearance. His lips, still bruised and swollen from the fight, parted slightly as if he was going to speak; instead, he shook his head and cupped her face in his hand, too overcome for words. Something just over her shoulder caught his attention and he glanced up, then nodded.

Too exhausted to keep her eyes open, her lids slid shut and darkness began to seep into her mind once more. In the distance, she could here her angel's voice, breaking with emotion.

"Yes, she will live," he murmured to someone, repeating the words to convince himself of it. "She will live."

* * *

The quiet of the room was a welcome relief to the frantic rushing about that had ensued throughout so much of the night. The clock upon the mantle chimed, startling the masked man from his dark thoughts. 

_Midnight…_he mused with derision. _It is now Noël, a day for celebration._ He smirked at the idea of it.

Fury again welled up inside of him as he leaned forward in the cream-colored armchair, studying the sleeping form of his beloved angel. The dull firelight flickered upon her battered, beautiful face, darkening the already gruesome bruises. Erik's eyes roamed over the woman's features…the most obvious mark was upon her throat, now wrapped with white bandages. Underneath the material, a thick, purple line circled about her neck, the bruise raw in places where the rope had rubbed into her flesh. Bluish lines stretched up and down her soft skin, evidence of the muscles that had been strained when she had struggled for air.

_Her face…_

Her face was also bruised in some places. In others, it was scattered with red and blue spots; the same that appeared on all the victims of the punjab lasso. When he had found her, rope taut about her throat, lips and face blue from the lack of air, he had thought her dead. Small tracks of blood had streamed from under her eyelids where the delicate capillaries had burst from unremitting strain. He had pulled his noose from her neck in agony, loosing a howl of despair—the cry of a soul tormented by the fires of hell.

Leaning forward, he had placed a soft kiss upon her forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair.

_Lavender…lavender and blood. _

And then he had felt the faint fluttering of a pulse under his fingertips, and his heart came alive with hope. He forced breath after breath into her, willing her to live again, until, at last, she had breathed—a great, gasping, shuddery breath. When she had opened her eyes, the whites of them turned red from the straining, they had been the most beautiful and horrific sight he had ever beheld.

Erik's fists clenched together tightly as the chaotic events of the evening flew through his mind. Mas, strangling his beloved angel just feet from his unconscious body. A gunshot ringing through the room and the sound of glass shattering, stirring him to life again…

_He had opened his eyes just in time to see the uninjured valet drop Christine and dive for Papi, trying to wrestle the pistol from her fingers. The maid cried and screamed for help, yet Erik was unable to move, his brain still too foggy to command his body into motion. _

_And then Norry, toting his ancient rifle, barreled through the door, sending the valet sprinting across the floor and through the shattered second story window. The caretaker flew down the stairs and took up chase, but the younger Mas proved too quick for him, and fled into the dark London night. So the deadly valet escaped without so much as a scratch, and the old man returned to the room just as the Comtesse gasped for air, only to again be sent out into the cold night for Hale. _

_At that point, the masked man had heard a low groan from the corner, and saw that the foolish M. David was beginning to stir. When the lawyer took in Madame de Chagny's condition, he fell to his knees at the woman's side, pathetically wailing some jumbled mess about poisoning and being the one to blame. _

_How Erik had managed to resist the murderous singing of his blood was still beyond his understanding. Perhaps it was because he loved Christine more than he hated M. David that he was able to stay his hand when he saw the abhorrent lasso curled docilely at his knees, calling to his rage-filled senses to grasp it, wield it with his nimble fingers. However, to take up the rope—still bright red with the blood of his beloved angel—and place it around the neck of one so unworthy as the sniveling avocat, seemed to Erik, sacrilegious. Instead, he gritted his teeth and grabbed the weeping man by his hair and shirt collar, hauling him up from the ground. Dragging the flailing man down the stairs, through the foyer and kitchen, he ripped open the door to the wine cellar and roughly shoved him down the narrow staircase into the dark, musty room. _

"_Enjoy your black prison, Monsieur; you should find more than enough Burgundy to poison yourself into oblivion," the masked man growled, careless of whether the avocat had been rendered insensible by his tumble down the stairs. "Pray that in several days, if the Comtesse lives, I shall remember that you are here in this hole. For as of this moment, I'd just assume forget that you pollute this earth." And with his parting words, he slammed the cellar door shut, pulled a brass key from his waistcoat, and locked the traitor in the darkness…_

Erik ran a hand over his drained features, his golden eyes straying to Jean-Paul's room. He leaned back in the armchair and closed his eyes, pondering over the sad little boy…

_Anxiously making his way back to Christine's blue bedroom, he had desired nothing more than to wrap his arms around the unconscious woman and cradle her still form to his breast. However, the loud, frightened wail of a child had met his ears as he rounded the corner to the Comtesse's suite. Peering through the door of Jean-Paul's bedroom, he watched as the little boy, face red with anger and streaked with tears, squirmed and pushed against the maid who held him firmly in her arms. His cry of "Maman!" could be heard amidst the livid howling; with a sinking feeling, Erik knew that his angel's little son had witnessed something that no small child should ever have to see._

"_Mademoiselle," the masked man shouted over the child's cries, "did he—?" The maid nodded briefly, ducking away from the flailing arms of her little charge._

"_The commotion must have waked him. I ushered the little man out as quickly as possible, but as you can see…" Her words trailed away as she cooed into the boy's ear, desperately trying to soothe his distraught mind. She glanced about frantically for something, anything to silence the choked sobbing._

_Erik followed her gaze and saw the plush white horse nestled in the disheveled blankets upon the boy's bed. He strode over to the toy and grabbed it up. Hesitating for a moment in front of the wailing child, he tucked the horse into the crook of Jean-Paul's arm and quickly turned to leave the room. He paused with his hand on the doorknob as the child's cries grew even shriller, weighing several options; then, with a great sigh, turned back to the maid._

"_Give me five minutes to settle Madame de Chagny into her bed, then bring the boy back into the room. He has already seen her; there can be no harm in allowing him to stay with his mother until the doctor arrives."_

_Papi's face paled, and she began to protest. "But Monsieur—"_

"_Five minutes," the man repeated firmly, his eyes flashing with impatience. He closed the door soundly behind him, muffling the child's scared cries. _

_Kneeling next to his angel, Erik saw that Papi had already washed the blood from her deathlike face and neck, and had bound her hair away from the wounds. He tenderly ran two fingers along her jawline and closed his eyes, almost feeling her ghostlike touch upon his face. _

_He remained next to her for a minute longer, listening to the soft wheeze of her steady breathing. Then, as cautiously as possible, he eased his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, lifted her limp body from the cold wooden boards, and carried her to her bed. Pulling a counterpane from the cream chair, he spread it over her lifeless frame, careful to hide the gruesome bruises upon her neck from her son's eyes…_

Erik strode over to the fireplace and stirred the burning logs to life. He glanced at the clock above the mantle…half past two. The entire household was now asleep, save for the _Sûreté_ agent that kept vigilance in the downstairs library, listening for any sounds of mischief carried upon the night wind.

He slowly eased himself to the floor, careful not to pull the stitching in the knife wound at his side, and leveled his eyes upon the sleeping woman's face. The doctor had soundly chided him for letting the gash go so long without proper medical attention, but Erik had not heard a word of it; he had been too stunned by the man's prognosis for Christine to listen. Gently, his fingertips grazed along the white bandages about her throat, tracing the purple bruise just visible under the wrappings. She moaned softly in protest, the sound raspy and raw from the damage done to her voice.

_Her voice…_

The man shut his eyes against the doctor's words, struggling to force them to the back of his mind. If Christine should happen to wake and see the dread upon his face, she would know…

Somehow, she would know. And he wasn't ready to face her…not yet.

Still, the unbidden words came…

"_The extent of the damage caused by strangulation really depends on how long she went without air. She may suffer from memory loss, most definitely during the time period_ _when she was deprived of oxygen—but that may be a blessing to her." Hale's discretionary doctor replaced the Comtesse's hand at her side, then turned to his black bag, pulling out supplies to stitch the masked man's side. "Expect some respiratory problems, at least for awhile. The muscles in her neck and shoulders have been strained extensively—that is why the blood vessels burst in her face and eyes—so keep her from moving about the next several days, as much as you can. Her voice will be raspy and harsh-sounding, also from vast strain to the vocal chords. Most of the hoarseness may disappear with time, but it is likely she will always retain some permanent damage to her voice. As for the markings in her eyes and about her face and neck—they should disappear with the other bruises…"_

_The rest of the doctor's words faded into the background as one phrase resonated over and over…_

_Permanent damage to her voice…_

_The voice of an angel…_

_Erik was not aware of removing his shirt to let the man stitch his side, no longer concerned with the scars streaking his torso…_

_He did not remember Papi ushering Jean-Paul back into the room…_

_Nor the doctor giving the child a smile and pat upon the back, reassuring him that his Maman would be get better… _

"_Now, young master; your Papa looks as though he could use a spot of cheer. Be sure to take good care of him while your Mama is resting." The doctor nodded towards the despondent masked man and held his hand out for the small child to shake._

"_But he is not—" Papi stepped forward, intent on correcting the mistake. A firm hand at her elbow, however, silenced her explanation._

"_Let it go, butterfly," old Norry whispered softly, his eyes riveted upon the unfolding scene with sadness._

_The maid obeyed her father and closed her mouth, clearly unhappy with the situation. _

_The boy merely stared at the doctor's extended hand in confusion, then turned solemn blue eyes to his stunned music teacher…_

Erik buried his face in the bedclothes, fighting back the blackness that threatened to spill forth from his mind. A familiar stanza came to him and ever so softly, he leaned forward, fervently breathing it into her ear.

"By thee, thee alone, Euridice,

Can all the sorrow from by stricken soul

Be banish'd…"

Such conflict tore through his stricken soul, ripping apart the calm control he had managed to piece together since the moment Christine had breathed again. He clasped the woman's hand and pressed it to his lips, murmuring softly into her fingers.

"Forgive me, my angel."

His tormented gold eyes skimmed along the dark floorboards of the bedroom until they came to rest upon the bloody lasso. He pounded his fist upon the bed in rage—rage against the valet, the _avocat_, the _Narodnaya Volya_. Rage against the vile world that had done this to her—had taken something as pure and lovely as her voice and perverted it with its cruelty. And most of all, he raged against himself for providing the means for it to happen.

_Dear God, hadn't I selfishly wanted her to save me, to help me atone for my past crimes against humanity? But not like this…never at the expense of all that is dear to her…I would rather remain in the darkness than see this wretched lasso about her beautiful, innocent neck again; this weapon of death that has taken so many lives…_

_How sickeningly fitting that my angel of music should be its last victim…_

The man bitterly smirked at the bitter irony of it.

_To simply rot in hell, apparently, is not punishment enough._

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and stalked over to the lasso coiled upon the ground, as if ready to strike at his hand. He stooped to retrieve it, and reverently lowered the noose around his neck. Letting it hang there for a moment, he closed his eyes to memorize the weight of it, the feel of its roughness against his throat. Shuddering, he lifted it from his neck again and brought the bit of rope to his lips, bidding it a silent adieu as he would to a traitorous friend, an unfaithful mistress.

With a cry of fury, he flung the punjab lasso into the fire and watched as the bright flames swarmed up around it, quickly consuming its length until it was nothing more than a shriveled, black snake.

Erik stood with his hand to the mantle, gravely staring into the orange and gold flames, minute after minute, as the last of the rope burned away. Then, wearily, he slumped back to his angel's bedside and fell into the cream-colored armchair, at last letting exhaustion claim him. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, vaguely aware of the soft ticking of the mantle clock, the crackle of the fireplace. The quiet creak of a door…

He felt a small tug upon his pants leg, and his eyes barely slit open to behold Christine's little son staring up at him with wide, questioning eyes, his dark curls falling about his face. Clutching the white César horse to his chest, his lips parted slightly as if to speak, then closed again timidly when he received no encouragement from the man.

The child spun around to gaze at his sleeping mother. "_Maman_?" he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Yes, Jean-Paul," the man quietly replied. "She will be better in a few days, and won't look like that anymore."

The boy stared at his mother for a moment longer, then toddled back to his teacher. Putting his tiny hands on the man's knee, he hoisted himself up into Erik's lap and buried his pale face in the soft folds of the man's rumpled linen shirt.

Erik stiffened in surprise, unsure of what to do. But as the mantle clock softly ticked on and the fireplace continued to crackle, the child was gently lulled to sleep, his breath slow and steady. And at last, the man closed his eyes as well, discovering that he didn't have to do a thing.

**

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Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad. **

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	19. A Maid, a Mother, and a Queen

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for the plushie Cesar horse. I love the plushie Cesar horse!

**Side Notes:** **  
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_Thanks Juni and Chat for all of your help with this chapter! I really appreciate the time you took to help make Frat a better story :)_

**A Maid, a Mother, and a Queen**

"Watch whar yer goin' ol' man!"

Nadir Khan leapt away as the coster pushed past him on the footwalk, disheveling his hat. With a grunt, he backed into his shadowed corner next to the door once more, straightening the bowler on top of his head. The Persian scanned the grimy Billingsgate fish market, searching for a familiar face among the masses of the dirty, evil-smelling precinct.

While the rest of London slept between the hours of five and seven in the morning, the great building along the Thames thrived with people carrying fish on their heads, street dealers wandering between fish-shops and fish-stalls, and fishmongers picking the best of the daily catches to grace the tables of the city's residents. The noise of the auction was a sharp contrast to the sleepy quiet beyond the red brick walls; all about him, the bells of bargains rang and the cries of hagglers threatened to overwhelm his ears. "A 'eavy 'aul today, indeed!...This cotch whar a beauty…the finest crop o' crabs ye hever ded see!"

Another dockworker passed through the door with a basket full of cod, pervading the daroga's nostrils with a fishy odor. He grimaced, thinking of how the foul stench would not likely leave his skin for a good many days.

_Foolishness, to meet in such a place, at such an hour! _His irritation growing by the minute,he glanced at his pocketwatch then quickly tucked it away. An unsavory character—a red-faced, bloated woman with matted hair and a tucked-up strong stuff gown—stared at the timepiece, and him, with greedy curiosity. Eyeing the daroga, she ever-so-carefully pulled up her skirt to reveal a large quilted petticoat and brawny limbs. Clearing his throat politely, he turned away from the woman and glanced through the narrow doorway into the black, wintry dockyards. He heard an angry huff behind him, and hoped that the lady had taken the gentle hint by hastily retreating.

Nadir gazed at the bustling scene upon the Thames. Gaslights lining the shore of the river cast a dull light over the early morning activity, throwing strange shadows upon the frost-covered planks. Hundreds of dockworkers moved up and down the slippery ramps of fishing boat upon fishing boat, unloading crates of iced lobsters, oysters, mackerel, shrimp, cockles and winkles—all sorts of staples and delicacies from the sea. He peered at each boat, searching for the same vessel that had carried him across the English Channel from Calais.

While the brief journey across the waters was by no means a comfortable one, it had been practical; the _Narodnaya Volya_ was most certainly watching the incoming and outgoing ferries that traveled along the river Thames. They more than likely had an eye on the dockyards as well, but in the midst of the flurry during the morning fish auctions, anybody could slip off of, or onto, a boat without being spotted.

It was easy for him to simply disappear into the controlled chaos of docks—an invisibility that would be useful when he returned in several days with four passengers in tow. Five passengers, if he successfully reasoned with his headstrong friend. The Persian could be just as determined as the masked man, for he had fought long and hard to push Erik out of his early grave—that abyss under the opera house—and he'd be damned if the man was going to slip back into the darkness after coming so far.

"Look lively boys, Crushers abroad!" The cry of the fishmonger drew Nadir's attention, and he glanced about to find its source. Two Royal Navy officers in tailored double-breasted wool coats, gold-trimmed cuffs, and white peak caps strolled down the walkway towards him, repelling middlemen and mongers alike. One had the easy, confident gait of a man familiar with the pungent market; the other was obviously less comfortable, having pulled his dark collar up to shadow his face. The daroga peered more intently at the seaman and saw that he, in fact, wore a mask.

The corners of Nadir's mouth twitched in amusement as he watched his friend's unease. Never, in all the days Allah had granted, had he expected to see Persia's lethal trapdoor lover in the uniform of a naval policeman. He extended a hand to his friend in greeting.

"_As-Salaam Alaikum_, _du stæm!_ It is good to see—" The daroga's words died on his lips as the two men flanked either side of him and roughly grasped his elbows, pushing him through the door and into the dockyard.

"Right!" exclaimed the other man, his brogue thick as he rolled his "r". "We doon' tolerate petty thieves and stowaways in Her Majesty's shipyards. Come along quietly, sir, and this'll be easy for you. Just a quick jaunt to the Yard, a night in a cell, then off ye go, back to the docks and across the Channel."

The men led the "stowaway" through the Billingsgate exit just to the left. Weaving through the bustling Thames dock, they successfully blended into the background, unnoticed by the heavily-clad dockworkers unloading fish from crates of ice. After all, it was not uncommon to see some shady character escorted out by the Royal Navy police that made rounds through the stinking, grimy market.

The Persian allowed the officers to guide him towards a waiting carriage marked with the royal insignia. Silently wondering how they had been able to obtain the carriage, he asked no questions until he was settled into the seat and Murray had closed the door.

"As I was saying, _du stæm,_ it is a pleasure to see you again." He held out his hand for the masked man to shake. Erik stared at it for a moment, then quickly grasped the proffered hand and released it.

The daroga chuckled softly. "I see that not much as changed, my friend; still as distrusting as ever." He tossed his hat onto the seat, opened his small satchel, and pulled out his preferred astrakhan cap to replace the bowler. Then he turned back to his friend, his face once again solemn.

"I received word in Calais from Hale, just as I was about to board a ferry, regarding the events several nights ago and the subsequent change of plans."

"I assumed as much, since you did indeed meet us at Billingsgate," Erik snapped, his gaze riveted to the London streets coming to life under the orange light of dawn. "The market was more convenient, anyway. Murray, believe it or not, really _is_ a member of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, as well as the French _Sûreté._ Fortunately, his loyalties lie more with the _Sûreté_ and Hale, which is why he allowed me to accompany him on his morning round through the fish auction. That answers your next question, does it not?"

The daroga calmly nodded, his astute eyes taking in the man's impatient demeanor and short temper.

"I am sorry about your singer, Erik," he said quietly. "Had I suspected that Henri David was capable of playing both sides against the other, I would have asked the _Sûreté_ to secrete him away in some northern country a long time ago." Silence met his words, yet he continued to speak, sensing his friend's need for distraction. "Do we know anything else about this _Fraternité _and Mas Quennell, other than the fact that he is a Frenchman who grew up a Russian exile?"

Erik cleared his throat and turned back to the daroga, sighing heavily. "From the little that Christine was able to communicate, the _People's Will_ is apparently sponsored by this group. M. David's eldest brother also appears to be a member of _Fraternité_, and one could assume the _avocat_ was approached about recovering this oath through the Marquis. As for the extent of M. David's knowledge about the group—it is unknown. The bastard refuses to open his mouth about them, even after they attacked Christine." Erik grimaced, staring out the window as if his source of disgust lay somewhere along the middle-class row of town homes.

Nadir had to give the _avocat _credit for standing firm in his resolution, no matter how flawed and deadly it proved to be. He would never have pinned M. David as someone with the ability to withhold information when faced with violent coercion, and he had no doubt that Hale and Erik had made many such threats over the past two days. Glancing towards the masked man, he observed that he had twisted his peak cap in his strong grip, bending the brim past repair.

"You are anxious for the Comtesse, my friend?" he said quietly. "You need not be. She will have the best of care in Jerusalem, I promise you. You _will_ be coming with us, I assume, after the latest incident?"

To his surprise, the masked man shook his head. "I plan to stay until Christine is well enough to travel, another two weeks or so. Then I shall continue on to Paris as planned." Erik held up a gloved hand to silence the daroga's protest. "Please do not argue over this, Nadir; I have already made up my mind. I'll not have her feel responsible for me—it will ruin her life, and her son's in the process."

The Persian studied his friend and smiled. "I was merely going to say that we leave in three days, as originally intended. There is a small window of opportunity for escape, as all the plans have been laid. It would take another month to arrange for a new fishing boat, a residence in Jerusalem, etcetera, and we don't have the luxury of time. We _must_ leave on schedule; there is no other way."

Erik twisted the cap again, his eyes dark and foreboding. "It is not enough time."

"For whom, _du stæm_?" Nadir quietly questioned. "Her? Or you?"

* * *

Papi knelt next to the child and pried the bottle of lavender scent from his tiny fingers.

"Jean-Paul, if the stopper comes off and all the perfume spills out, you shall regret it, little man." The maid dove for his wrists again as the boy twisted away from her indignantly, not in the least bit threatened by her warning. She firmly gathered him up in her arms and began to carry him from his mother's suite.

With a small cry of protest, the child immediately let go of the glass bottle and it fell to the floor, its contents spilling across the hard wood and rug.

Papi gasped as the sound of breaking glass disturbed the quiet of the room. She quickly glanced over to where her mistress was once again sleeping, and saw, to her relief, that the woman did not stir. Wrapping an arm firmly about the child's middle, she fairly strode from the room and went in search of someone—anyone—to keep an eye on the unruly boy while she cleared away the shards of glass. As she paced from room to room, however, she found to her dismay that her father was busy at some project in the frozen garden—mending a fence, and Hale was no where to be found.

As she rounded the corner past the pantry, she paused for a moment at the cellar door, deliberating whether to take some food or drink down to M. David. Two days had passed since the masked man—Erik, she silently called him now—had thrown the _avocat_ into the darkness, forbidding Papi and Norry to assist the prisoner in any way. The maid hadn't questioned his orders, her guilty conscience now the dictator of all her decisions. After all, she was fully aware of the part she had played in the near tragedy two nights ago, and thought it best to obey orders without protest for the time being, lest she make some grave error again.

A man's voice floated up to her from the cellar, and she recognized it to be Hale's, shouting something at the imprisoned lawyer. Determined not to interfere, Papi swallowed back the lump in her throat and swept into the kitchen. Setting the toddler down upon a kitchen chair, she grabbed up several wash rags and a basin of soapy water to scrub the floor. _For all the good it will do_, she sighed, knowing that the strong lavender scent had, most likely, permeated the entire room by now. Tucking the basin under her arm, she managed to brace it on her hip. Thankfully, Jean-Paul had stopped wailing in protest; so when Papi snapped and held out her hand for the boy, he willingly grasped hold of her fingers and followed her up the stairs again, carefully navigating them one-by-one.

Leaving the boy in the opposite corner of the room with his stuffed white horse, she tucked up her skirts and knelt next to the broken glass. Gingerly, she picked up the shards and laid them in one of the wash rags, her mind detached from the task at hand. Thoughts of the past two nights whirled about in her head, demanding all of her attention…

After the doctor had left and Jean-Paul was put to bed, Papi had returned to her own room, anxious to let sleep drive away her wretchedness.

But oblivion had refused to claim her that night, instead leaving her to be consumed by the guilt of her foolish actions. Her hands still trembled with the anger she had felt when she secretly listened to Mas Quennell's hate-filled words to the Comtesse:

"_Did it never occur to you that the viper that terrorized you nested in your very household?"_

And she became ill.

She felt the agony of betrayal. Everything that she had placed her faith in, the wall that had shielded her heart after her son's death, crumbled to the ground.

Mas had killed Perri. A man that had laughed with her, shared meals with her…a man that she had trusted. He had taken her son from her. Plundered her very soul and stolen any remaining joy that had rested there, then went to work as Henri David's valet right after he had murdered her child…as if nothing had happened. He had even come to the small funeral at the Chagny estate's chapel…

It had not been hard to fire the gun. Papi did not think twice before she pulled the trigger—she had aimed straight for his head, and shot. She missed, of course. And then he dove for her and she had screamed; not in fear, but in rage. She saw his face above her, and she wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes, rip his heart out as he had done to hers.

The maid scrubbed at the floor even harder, gasping as a small sliver of glass worked its way into the pad of her index finger. She struggled to extricate the stinging shard from her flesh, but only pushed it in further. With a huff of frustration, she returned to washing the rug.

_Back and forth…keep cleaning…scrubbing. Wash away the perfume—the sickly-sweet smell of lavender. Don't think, just focus on the task at hand. Ignore the sharp sting in your hand, the blood soaking into the wash rag. Shut the pain out of your heart, Papi. Turn the sad, pleading eyes away from your mind. Don't allow his laughter to filter into your brain and stream into your spirit…the feel of his arms around your neck…his soft voice whispering "Maman" into your ear…breath warm against your cheek…_

"Perri!"

The woman tossed the lavender-soaked rag away and put a fist to her mouth, stifling the sob that welled up within her breast. A torrent of emotion flooded into her body, mingling with the overpowering smell of the perfume and causing a wave of nausea to overcome her. She jumped up from the floor and stumbled to the small bathroom, her head reeling. Lowering herself into the corner, she pressed her tear streaked face to the cold tiles of the walls, gasping for air through her sobs.

She rocked back and forth, clutching at a plain silver locket around her neck. With trembling fingers, she opened the clasp and removed a small tuft of hair—fine and blonde, like hers. Gently, she ran the tress along her cheek, indulging in the one small link to her lost child.

And she wept bitterly.

She cried until the bit of hair was soaked with salty tears. She cried until there was no wetness about her eyes, and she was devoid of emotion…completely empty.

Papillon wanted to die…there was nothing left for her. She had betrayed her only friend, destroyed the one thing that had given her a shred of sanity—her loyalty to the remnants of the proud Chagny family. If the Phantom had not come to London, they would surely be dead by now—the Comtesse and her little boy. Dead because of her own foolish pride; her blind faith in an illusion. All of those long days after her son's murder, she had carefully built a barricade around her heart—created from the stones of duty, loyalty, and pride. Loyalty to the Chagny family and its household. Pride in the all of the good it represented—the heritage, the lineage. She had wrapped these things about her to protect against the glaring pain that had threatened to overwhelm her.

Now every time she spoke to the Comtesse, she no longer spoke to a friend, but to her mistress. When she rocked Jean-Paul to sleep in the nursery, she no longer held a little boy—Perri's little playmate—but the heir to the Chagny estate.

So it was no wonder that yesterday morning, when Christine de Chagny had stumbled from her bed and collapsed in front of the mirror, she had rejected the maid's help in favor of Erik's.

Papi had been in Jean-Paul's room, tucking him into his own bed after lifting him from that of his mother's, where he had curled up at some point during the night. A strangled cry caught her attention, and she rushed back to the room to find the Comtesse upon her knees in front of her large gilded mirror, trembling with fright at her ghastly appearance. The servant had quickly fallen to embrace her friend, but the woman had pushed her hands away, frantically trying to call for the masked man. No sound came from her poor, strained voice, yet he had bolted awake at her silent cries and stumbled from the chair, gathering her in his arms. Papi had quietly stepped aside as he soothed the woman's fears, stroked her hair, and whispered words for her ears only.

All the evidence was laid before her—this Erik, whatever his past crimes, loved Raoul de Chagny's widow; selflessly and completely. And the Comtesse loved him in return. _He_ was the one she had turned to, time and again since that October day; not Raoul's sister, not M. David, not even Papi and her father.

In spite of this realization, the sad maid found her spirit still edged with bitterness. Try as she might, she could not push away the jealousy…the distrust…the anger that boiled just under the surface.

And she loathed herself for what she had become.

Another sob shuddered through her body, and she let her head fall back against the wall, utterly spent. How long she had sat there, huddled in the cold corner? From somewhere far away, she could hear Jean-Paul softly singing to himself, tripping over the bigger words. It was a song she had taught to Perri, and Perri had then taught it to the boy. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine the soft voice of her own little boy…

_Un, deux, trois,  
Allons dans les bois,  
Quatre, cinq, six,  
Cueillir des cerises…_

Slowly, the singing faded into the background, and then stopped altogether. An exclamation brought her head up again, and she glanced at the door to find the very man she had been pondering over standing there. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut in quickly.

"One of Madame de Chagny's perfumes was spilt—that is why it smells so strongly." Her weary eyes met the man's, but she made no move from the corner; she cared not whether it angered him. Twirling the silky lock of hair about in her fingers, she coiled it and replaced it in her locket, then snapped the small piece shut.

The man said nothing, continuing to study her with slit eyes as he would a statue or a painting; with a trifle of curiosity. She turned her face away from the cold gaze and stared at the wall, following the tile patterns absently.

The masked man eventually left the room. Papi exhaled, only then realizing that she had been holding her breath the entire time he had stood in the doorway. He soon returned, however, bringing a small glass of wine with him. Silently, he held it in front of the woman's face, waiting for her to take it.

She stared at the man's hand, nervously pushing a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. At last, she slowly reached up and accepted the glass. Warily holding it between her fingers, she wavered at length before putting it to her lips, sipping a bit of the warm liquid.

The masked man smirked at the woman's suspicion. "I assure you, Mlle. Nitot, that the wine is not poisoned. It is perfectly safe to drink."

Papi's nodded, her eyes fixed upon the man's face. "Yes," she murmured softly, "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you found out. I _knew_ that the goblets were poisoned when I gave them to you and the Comtesse. How did you discover it? Did Henri—"

"Really Mademoiselle, it was not difficult to put two and two together," Erik interjected, in no mood to humor the sniveling woman. "You need not blame that fool of an _avocat _for betraying you; he already has more than enough reason to fear for his precious neck. You betrayed yourself. Your nervousness when you left the glasses, that remorseful look you have been exhibiting since yesterday morning. It would not take a genius to see it."

"And yet you are a genius, Monsieur, so the Comtesse has told me." The woman tried to meet the challenge in the man's sparking gold eyes, but didn't have the stamina for it. Instead, she gazed at one of the brass buttons on his jacket, studying the anchor embossment on the metal.

"Why am I not locked in the cellar with M. David? I have been just as deceitful as he."

Erik folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe, quietly relishing his triumph over the woman's will. "I am not capable of compassion, Mlle. Nitot. The only reason you have not been thrown into the cellar and interrogated along with the _avocat _is because you are useful to me. Christine is not able to look after her child at the moment. Someone must also help to care for her, since I cannot be there at all times. Like today."

Papi glanced over to the man and noticed for the first time that he was dressed as a sailor; an officer, to be precise. And he reeked of fish. Suddenly, she wondered what he had been about all morning, and began to ask. The masked man spoke before she had the chance, though, indicating that their brief conversation was at an end.

"There are three men downstairs in the library; they have not eaten today. Would you see to them?"

She nodded in assent and cautiously pushed herself up from the floor, her feet numb after crouching in the corner for so long. Smoothing her skirts, the woman followed the man from the room. She turned to make her way to the kitchen, but on impulse, spun around and grabbed Erik's arm. Catching him by surprise, he tried to pull it away, but she held firm to his shirtsleeve. Her words were low and grave.

"Monsieur, this man—Mas Quennell—he murdered my son. I want him dead." She caught her trembling lower lip between her teeth as her glittering brown eyes held his.

The man pulled his arm from her grip, studying her face. At last he nodded in response. "It would seem that we have one thing in common, Mlle. Nitot. You desire him dead, and I want to kill him." And with those parting words, he turned away from the woman to retreat to the cream armchair next to the Comtesse's sleeping form.

* * *

"Christine…"

The woman felt a hand upon her shoulder, gently rousing her from her restless dreams. Through a haze, she saw her angel's face above her, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in what could almost be construed as a smile. The contours of his eyes and brow were a bit clearer than they had been yesterday, and she felt reassured that her sight would, indeed, return to normal before long.

"I apologize for waking you; I know that you slept fitfully last night, and could probably do with more sleep."

She opened her mouth to speak, but the man put a finger to her lips to silence her.

"Christine," her teacher reproached, the familiar, tenacious voice striking a chord of penitence within her. "You must try to remember not to use your voice—not yet, anyway. If there is the slightest chance that it can be salvaged…" He glanced away, the worry in his eyes betraying his thoughts.

His anxiety, however, did not cause her grief. Instead, it gave her comfort to know that the man next to her felt the loss of her voice as keenly as she did; as if it were his own that had been stolen from his throat. After all, hadn't they been brought together all those years ago by her voice and his music? Like a key to a lock, the two merged and opened the door to an entirely new realm of song; a place in which only the composer and his muse could roam.

_No one understands the secret language as we do, _she reflected_. The power my voice holds over him…the trance his notes weave upon me. _

_But to lose this power…this passion…_

It was not the fright of the attack that had haunted her dreams these past two days, but her angel's words afterwards, explaining the damage done to her vocal chords. And she had felt such anger, such guilt. Anger at what had been taken away…guilt for squandering her gift the past four years, ever since she had fled the opera house.

_How selfish I was to take it all for granted…and now it is gone…_

"Christine, did you hear anything at all?"

The woman glanced up at her teacher, her mind still foggy from sleep. She shook her head, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment at her flightiness.

Erik sighed, and repeated his words. "I said that Nadir Khan—the man who will stay with you and your family in Jerusalem—is here, and would like to meet you. May I bring him in?"

The Comtesse nodded and pushed herself into a sitting position, smoothing her wild curls back from her face. She accepted her wrap from her teacher's proffered hand and placed it over her shoulders, situating it to ensure that she was at least decent for company, if not presentable. A random vision of Raoul's prudish sister came to mind; the woman's thin lips and pale face tight in disapproval. Christine smirked at what the social-conscious aristocrat would say if she could observe Raoul's widow at the moment, corsetless, admitting strange men to her bedroom.

A solid rap sounded upon the door announcing their presence, and Christine straightened her back, waiting for them to enter. At the last minute, she remembered the ugly bandages and bruises at her neck, and pulled her shawl up, clutching the thick material just under her chin to hide them from the eyes of the Persian.

A solemn-faced man of average height and a square build strode through the doors behind Erik. He wore a long overcoat and clutched an astrakhan cap in his hands, his white knuckles the only sign that he was nervous in the slightest. He was older than Erik, but she could not determine his approximate age, for his coffee-colored skin was still smooth and his thick black hair was streaked with very little silver. His eyes, however, betrayed his years; the Persian's clear, jade eyes belied a wealth of wisdom and knowledge that could only be obtained over time.

He strode over to the foot of her bed and bowed in greeting, his eyes never leaving her face. Christine half expected him to flinch at the sight of her frightful appearance, but his gaze was steady.

"Madame, it is a great honor to meet you at last," he spoke warmly in slightly accented French, and pressed her hand in his. "Truly, I feel as if I already know you, my friend speaks of you so; for years, he was quite lost without you—"

"Daroga, that is not necessary," Erik cut in, his voice edged with warning. "You have been introduced to her; now perhaps your maddening interference into my dealings will cease."

Nadir's calm gaze met that of the masked man's, and the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. "_Du stæm,_ the day I cease to take an interest in your affairs will be the day that one of us dies."

The masked man glared at him for a moment; his skillful intimidation that had often been used with her was now turned upon the Persian. M. Khan, however, seemed completely unruffled by the imposing person and met the glare with a cool expression. Waving his hand in mute dismissal, Erik relinquished the game.

"Bah! Really, Nadir, you can be utterly vexing. There is much to be done, and we are wasting time here when the cellar awaits."

The Comtesse watched the two friends' exchange in quiet wonder. Never had she seen her maestro let down his guard with another human being, other than herself. She felt an instant liking for the man who had apparently been a friend to her unhappy Erik after she had left him alone and desolate. She felt gratitude as well, because he did not seem to blame her for her actions those years ago.

She was so lost in her musings that she almost missed her angel's last remark about the cellar. Slowly, it dawned on her what they were about to do. Before he could turn away, the woman grasped her angel's hand, pulling him down to his knees.

"Erik," she whispered hoarsely, ignoring the man's protests. "I want to be there."

The man inhaled sharply and shook his head in disbelief. "Don't be foolish, child. There is nothing there for you, even if you _were_ strong enough to make it down the stairs without falling. The fact _is, _however,that you are too fragile right now, Christine, both physically and mentally."

Incensed at his words, she glared at the man icily. "I have a right to be there," she rasped, fighting back the tears caused by the sharp sting of her throat.

The man sighed and touched his fingertip to her cheek, switching to a smoother, velvety tone. "Christine, please believe me when I tell you that you should not be present for this. The fool of a man has to be dealt with at some point, for Jean-Paul's sake as well as your own. We must find out what he knows, using _whatever means_ _necessary_; try to consider why I do not desire your presence." His sad eyes pleaded with her for understanding, and at last she nodded in resignation, shuddering at the implications of his words.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then rose to leave, motioning for the daroga to follow. Christine waited for several minutes until she was sure they were out of hearing. Taking a slow, rough breath, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and pushed herself up onto wobbly legs. Putting a hand on the bedpost to steady herself, she carefully made her way over to the large gilded mirror.

Her breath caught when she beheld the image before her, her stomach flipping as an unfamiliar, frightful face stared back.

_This cannot be me…_

Reaching out to touch the mirror, the woman traced her features in the glass, desperately trying to accustom herself to the deathlike face that had haunted her dreams last night. Yesterday morning, she had fallen to her knees in fear when she caught a glimpse of the red-eyed thing for the first time. Covering her face with her hands, she had frantically sobbed, pushing away Papi's attempts to comfort her. She hadn't _realized_ how horrid she looked. How could she bear to look upon her child, knowing that he would cry in fright when he saw her?

And then her angel's arms were around her, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, whispering words of comfort into her ear…

"_Angel, all shall be well…the shock will fade with time, as will the bruises…remember to see beyond the face in the mirror, Christine. If you have learned nothing else from me, hold onto this. I beg of you…"_

Beyond the face in the mirror… 

The woman pressed her hand to the cool glass, as if testing its solidity. Her gaze skimmed along the ugly black bruises that covered her neck, up her jawline, the bluish splotches about her cheeks. She stared into her eyes, looking past the surface redness of them and into their depths. What answers did they hold?

Sadness gazed back at her…knowledge…a touch of wisdom…

Ever so slowly, a new person was emerging. No longer did her eyes reflect the innocence of her mind, the naivety of her soul. She had experienced too much horror in the world, felt the beauty of death wrap blissful arms around her.

_Death…_ Images of a storm flashed through her mind. _A sea…and the breeze…and Raoul… _

She had been there at the edge of existence, and had returned…Returned to save her son. Returned to save her angel's soul. And she could do both with one deft stroke, if she had the strength…

Her hand caressed her swollen throat, gently running her nails along the curve of her shoulder. Fingertips dug underneath the bandages covering the black band around her neck. She tried to rip them away, but they held firm.

With a cry of frustration, she frantically rummaged through her armoire until she came to a little sewing box pushed to the back. Flipping the lid open, she dug through the colored spools of thread, needles, thimbles, until she found a small pair of scissors. The woman scooped them up and returned to the mirror, slipping the cold blade under the white bandages. Carefully, she snipped away the layers until they fell to the ground, leaving her neck now bare and exposed. She smiled in triumph as she beheld the mark of death in all its glory.

Hiding no longer suited her.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

Erik sneered at the trembling, bound _avocat_ and grasped his matted hair, forcing him to look at his face. Madness loomed just beyond the edge, and he knew that one foolish utterance on the lawyer's part was all it would take to snap his tight reins of control.

"I assure you that my face is a sight you would not easily erase from your mind, boy. Men have died after catching a mere glimpse of it." The man smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Died because I killed them. Now M. David, I ask you one more time—_what is the Fraternité_?"

The _avocat_ wildly glanced about the dark cellar for Nadir, hoping beyond hope that the Persian would step forward and put an end to the madness. When he spotted him in the corner, just beyond the weak circle of light from the oil lamp, he tried to meet his eyes to beg for release.

The daroga simply shook his head at the man's feeble attempts. "I am afraid that I can no longer offer you any assistance, Monsieur. You were given several chances in Paris to cooperate, and you chose to play a game of roulette instead. Now you must face the consequences. Answer my friend's question, if you please."

Mouth hanging open in disbelief, the _avocat_ sputtered some incomprehensible, sniveling words. "Please, Messieurs, if you kill me, you will discover nothing at all. I can tell you what you'd like to know, but you must release me first!"

Finally the masked man's control reached its limits, and his hand flew to his waist to whip out the punjab lasso. When his fingers came up empty, though, he remembered with a start that he was no longer in possession of the deadly weapon. He paused in consideration, then stalked towards the shrinking lawyer, snarling in anger. Bare hands would have to do.

Light unexpectedly flooded into the room as the cellar door was flung open, and the silhouette of a woman stood above them at the top of the stairs. The men put their hands to their eyes to shield them from the sudden burst, struggling to see who stood before them. Grasping hold of the railing, she slowly made her way down the narrow staircase, descending into the darkness. Then the light pouring down into the cellar washed over her features, and a collective intake of breath rose up from her male companions.

"Allah be merciful," the Persian murmured, his eyes fixed upon the woman before him. Gone was the shy creature he had met only moments before—the child that had smiled up at him apologetically, cowering under her wrap. Gone was the girl that his friend had described to him time and again—an angel, radiant and lovely in her innocence. The woman that stood before him was beautiful, to be sure. Beautiful and terrible, as if she possessed the very spirit of Hades' queen.

She moved gracefully across the floor towards the _avocat_, her back straight and her head high and proud. Standing before the wide-eyed Henri, her eyes never leaving his terrified face, she whispered hoarsely to the men behind her.

"What has he told you?"

Erik gaped at the fury before him, his reason clouded with the potent spell this creature had cast. Shaking himself out of the trance, he took a hesitant step towards his angel, speaking her name to reassure himself that it was, indeed, she.

"Christine," he said tentatively, "I asked you not to come down here. You have been hurt, and you are ruining your voice—"

"What has he told you?" she repeated firmly, the rasp of her voice intensifying with her impatience.

The masked man stared at his beloved angel in astonishment. All at once, the haziness of her actions began to crystallize, and he understood what she was about. How could _he_, darkness itself, not help but recognize the same resentment, same bitterness of betrayal when it was reflected in another? His own angel now wielded the very weapons that had driven him all his life, and he was powerless to stop her.

"He has imparted nothing, Madame."

The Comtesse nodded and turned cold, glistening eyes upon the lawyer. Drawing back her hand, she struck her traitorous friend across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the near empty cellar and startled the two men looking on in mute incredulity. Lowering herself to her knees, she leaned into the sputtering M. David and grasped his hand, deliberately pulling his fingertips to her wounded neck.

"Do you see this black ribbon, this ornamentation about my throat, Henri?" she breathed into his ear, her words dripping with derision. "It is a present from Death, gifted to me by the very people that you seek to protect; the people who murdered my husband, _your friend_. They shall murder Jean-Paul as well, if you stay silent." She ran a finger along the man's face and he turned away from her in shame.

"Christine, please," he whispered. "I did not mean for this to happen to you—any of it. I only wanted to protect you, to end all of this!"

"Then end it now, Henri," she spat, her eyes flashing in anger. "Tell us what _Fraternité_ is, and I swear that you will leave this cellar alive. If you stay silent, then I wash my hands of you. My angel is not as forgiving…" She peered back at Erik, his arms folded across his chest, teeth grinding in frustration. For a brief moment, her strength began to waver; then the masked man nodded, and she grew confident once more.

The lawyer squirmed uneasily, her words striking home. Suddenly, his face lit with an idea and he turned towards the Comtesse, weighing his words carefully.

"I shall tell you all that I know, if you promise me one thing."

The woman searched his eyes. "What would that be, Henri?" she murmured cautiously, her voice low and hoarse.

"Take me to Jerusalem with you. If you leave me behind in London, even locked away in Scotland Yard, they will find me and murder me! But not before they discovered your location…"

A movement in the corner of the room caught her attention, and she turned to see Erik striding forward, dark and murderous, his face ashen. He caught M. David by the throat.

"How did you find out about Jerusalem?" he whispered fiercely, his fingers tightening about the man's windpipe.

Christine's hand flew up and grasped his; slowly, deliberately, she eased it from its vice-like grip on the sputtering lawyer's throat. "That may be my fault, Erik," she said inaudibly. "I had to tell Papi and Norry, so one of them might have revealed it."

The masked man shook his head in aggravation, his eyes mere slits of color. Twisting his wrist around, he clutched the woman's fingers in his. She did not flinch.

"Christine," he murmured, "you exasperate me to all ends." He gently pressed her hand to his lips and released it, then stepped away from the _avocat_. "You must know, however that there are only two choices left to us. He is right—they will find him no matter where he goes, and he will give you and your son up to them. We already know that he is capable of it. Your _avocat_ must either go to Jerusalem as well, or die in this cellar."

Christine stared at her sniveling, filthy friend, vehemently gazing upon his wide eyes, his gaping mouth. She despised the look of him—hated as she had never hated before. Betrayal truly was a bitter poison—a substance that could seep through the skin and into the heart, flow throughout the bloodstream. It could cause one to rot from the inside out and yet they would embrace the slow death, for their body would sing with the desire for revenge during the process.

Nadir, who had chosen to observe the entire exchange in silence, solemnly stepped forward. "The decision is yours to make, not ours, Madame de Chagny; you are the one that has been wronged."

Her blood fairly sang with it now. With one word…a simple "yes"…she could have her revenge on this man who dared to put her child in danger, and no one need find out. She could go to Jerusalem and live in peace with her son, at least for awhile, without having to fret over loose ends. No one would know... Only the Persian. God. Her angel…

"Erik, who would kill him?" she questioned suddenly.

Silence met her words for an irreverent length of time. At long last, a soft reply. "I would, if that is what you wish, my angel."

At that moment, all desire for revenge drained from her blood as a greater emotion filtered into her being, settling into the pit of her stomach. The Comtesse slowly rose and turned to face the masked man. She caught his gold eyes with hers, expressing with a single glance all the love she felt in her soul.

"Then he shall go to Jerusalem."

A jovial cry caused her to spin around in surprise, and she found her shoulders grasped firmly by two strong hands. Nadir Khan pulled her to him and firmly kissed both of her cheeks.

"Madame de Chagny," he exclaimed, his voice breaking, "let me say again what a pleasure it is to at last make your acquaintance."

**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	20. Revelations

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except Michel David, the Marquis de Bourges…

**Side Notes:** **  
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_Thanks Chat for all of your help with this chapter! I really appreciate the time you took to help make Frat a better story :)_

**Revelations**

_The voice of an angel…_

_That night, he had called to her from the mirror, and she had followed him down…down into the darkness. She was awed by the majesty of his presence…at last, his voice had pulled her to him, and she answered his siren's call with wonder. His heady music was like a sorcerer's song, weaving a spell over her mind and heightening every sense in her body. Resonant and clear, his voice pulled her deeper into the beautiful illusion he conjured…she could almost see the patterns of his creation, so seductive were the colors of the notes. He took her mind in his hands, and all she knew was the voice…no past, no present…only him. _

_His hands… _

_Although her back was turned to him, she could sense her angel of music move closer…his arms slowly come around her waist. Even through the soft leather of his gloves, his touch was like fire upon her wrists. Long, sensitive fingers caressed the soft skin between her knuckles, then leisurely skimmed up the length of her arms to clasp her shoulders. She could feel the length of his body standing just behind her, his chest barely touching her, the soft wool of his coat grazing her shoulder blades. _

_Lowering his head, he breathed his song into her ear, the toxic sweetness of it threatening to overcome every last thread of control she possessed. Her heart throbbed against the barriers of her breast, and she thought, perhaps, his did the same…_

"_Anywhere you go…"_

Christine bolted up in the bed, wildly glancing about the stark room to gain her bearings. In the soft lamplight, her shadow loomed over the bare, white walls, stretching from corner to corner, floor to ceiling. Confusion flooded through her as she peered around for Erik. Taking in the quiet, empty room, her heart fell with a sickening thud.

_He is not here,_ she mourned, a twinge of pain shooting through her insides. _He left for Paris almost two weeks ago, right after the confrontation in the cellar. Now he is far away, and slides farther still with each mile this massive ship of metal travels._

Her current surroundings did not lend themselves to pleasant thoughts; the calm Mediterranean day had quickly given way to thunderstorms, bringing the cold rain and grey clouds with them. Though the Royal Navy's prize battlecruiser—the _H.M.S. Inflexible_—bore a strong name, it was not immune to choppy waves and strong winds. Christine had spent most of the day curled up in her small chamber, green with seasickness.

She had tried to sleep away the remainder of the day, only once stirring to play with her son and to take a small bowl of broth that Papi had forced into her hands. The broth, of course, had not stayed in her stomach for long. Promptly returning to bed, she had burrowed under the blankets, willing herself into unconsciousness. The overwhelming changes of the past weeks, however, came back to torment her with a vengeance…

_Nadir released the Comtesse from his embrace, then caught her shoulders again as the strength she had mustered in front of the mirror drained from her body, leaving her limbs trembling with fatigue. Carefully, he held her elbow as she lowered herself onto the cellar steps, her breath coming in gasps and wheezes. She nodded her thanks to the Persian, then clasped her neck with a small white hand, massaging her throat as if she could make her airway open with the touch of her fingers. Lack of oxygen made her light-headed, and she leaned her cheek against the rough wood of the stair banister. _

_The strain of the confrontation eventually began to ease from her muscles, and she relaxed against the stone wall. As her breathing steadied, she opened her eyes and saw that Erik, at some point, had knelt next to her on the steps and was anxiously observing her. _

_He gently wrapped his fingers round her bruised, swollen neck, and ever-so-carefully traced the thick purple line with his thumbs. He absently nodded to the Persian, and the man quickly pulled M. David from his chair._

"_I shall see that he bathes and eats, then bring him back to the cellar until we decide what to do with him." Nadir dragged the stumbling lawyer up the stairs, leaving Erik and his protégé alone. _

_The masked man leaned forward and tucked a wayward curl behind the woman's ear, his fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. "Christine, what you did for M. David—it was merciful, to be sure," he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion. "The idea, however, is madness. You cannot take this wretched boy to Jerusalem with you. What if he betrays you again?" _

"_Then come with me, Erik."_

_He shook his head and glanced away, ignoring her plea. "That would not be wise, Christine. Nadir shall take excellent care of you. However, to ask him to tote this fool of an avocat around the Middle-east is too much. The man will have to be kept at arm's length at all times, and that sort of situation is not conducive to life in Jerusalem. You will have a hard enough time adjusting to the changes without the extra burden of keeping this man under lock and key. If you would only allow me to make a swift end of it here, in London…"_

_The woman caught his face in her palm, pushing his gaze back to hers. She studied the molten gold and noticed, for the first time, they were flecked with a darker shade of amber. _

"_Come with me, Erik," she whispered again, her voice low and hoarse. "Not because you fear for my safety with Henri. Come with me…not out of obligation, but because you loathe to leave my side. Come with me… not just to Jerusalem, but anywhere that life takes us." Christine held out a hand to him, willing him to take it. "Are you so jaded, my angel, that you cannot see? All you have desired is within reach…" _

_His eyes burned now, her words undeniably tempting him to grasp what he had only dreamed of. Within the spheres of color, passion raged mightily against logic; his desire to do as she asked warred with all the cruel realities the world had taught him. _

_As she watched, sense slowly began to stifle the brightness of his longing. To her dismay, he bowed his head in defeat. _

"_What I desire, my angel, is for you to let go of this ridiculous notion that you can save me." The man exhaled slowly, his fingertips again grazing the wound at her neck. He stared at it, his eyes darkening to a rich hue of amber that drowned the flecks gracing them. "I told you four years ago, when I sent you away with the boy, that I was beyond redemption. Nothing has changed, Christine. I cannot wipe away the atrocities I have committed…but I _can_ prevent my blackness from further polluting your spirit. If you will not think of yourself, consider Jean-Paul. What kind of life would he have, with a mother who exhausts herself in tears, and a father with a face—"_

"_No," she whispered forcefully, shaking her head at his words. "I refuse to accept excuses, Erik. The truth is, you are _afraid_. Afraid that all of the things you have desired will actually come to pass. That you would, for the first time, be forgiven instead of condemned. Then the beliefs you have held about yourself would no longer be true—" _

_A fit of coughing seized the woman, and she pressed a hand to the cold wall to steady herself, struggling to finish. "—and you…would not know…who you were—"_

_Erik calmly waited for the fit to pass. He stood slowly, wearily, as every single one of his years lay heavily upon his shoulders. Grasping the woman's elbows, he helped her to her feet. _

"_Christine," he gently murmured, voice full of concern. "All I desire is for you to utter nothing else, at least for another two weeks. Or have you already forgotten the doctor's prognosis?" He faintly smiled upon her, but the expression seemed forced, mismatched to the rest of his demeanor. Supporting her small frame against him, he firmly led her up the stairs and through the empty hallways, depositing her in her bedroom. Saying nothing more, he quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him…_

Christine glanced at the clock on her nightstand—a quarter to eight. It was almost time to meet with Henri. The _avocat _was to keep his end of the bargain tonight, now that they were halfway to Jerusalem and he was in no danger of being tossed overboard by a raging masked man. A part of her had begun to wish that she _had_ let Erik deal with the sniveling man in London.

Sighing, she slipped from her bed and turned to the white basin and pitcher on the simple table in the corner. She poured water and splashed some on her face, letting the droplets run down her cheeks and neck. She shuddered as they escaped under her bodice and cooled her feverish, clammy skin. Patting her face dry, she turned to the mirror to try and make herself presentable.

The face that stared back was not as horrific as it had been two weeks ago. The redness of her eyes had lightened to trace amount of pink, and clear blue once again shone through. Most of the bruising about her cheeks and jaw-line had faded to a grayish-green; a color which, today, was emphasized by the seasick pallor of her skin. Her bruised neck was still startling to look at, though the thick black line was now blue. Thankfully, the swelling had all but ceased after the first week, allowing her to breathe with ease.

Even her voice had begun to improve, though there was a persistent raspy quality that had not left. Once again, the thought crossed her mind that the hoarseness might be a permanent fixture. She shook the fear away. _It is too soon to tell. Not enough time has passed to know for sure…_

The woman quickly grabbed the soft wool scarf she had worn every day since their departure and wrapped it around her throat. _It is better if Jean-Paul does not see, _she insisted.And yet, she could not let go of the feeling that she was once again hiding, that the strength she had mustered in the cellar was but a fleeting occurrence in a long history of weakness…

_He was gone the next morning. Christine, in truth, was not surprised by his swift departure. Erik was a man who would deliberate for days, even months at a time over a decision, carefully weighing every aspect open to him. Once the choice was made, however, he carried it out with shocking speed, never once looking back to reflect upon the consequences._

_And so she had spent the remaining two days preparing for their departure. Once again, she lovingly packed away the few treasures she had carried with her to London—the porcelain box, the brooch from Raoul, her mother's handkerchief and her father's violin. Her hand brushed over the rose her teacher had given her when she first came to the London town home. She had tried to dry the bloom once the color began to darken and wilt, but had made a mess of it. The delicate petals had crumbled under her ministrations, leaving a flaky pile upon her dresser. Carefully brushing the pieces into the bin, the woman struggled to turn her thoughts away from the masked man. _

_It was not an easy task._

_She tried not to think of him as she wandered from room to room, helping Papi and Norry to put out the lights before their departure for the docks. The Rubaiyat was still on the small table in the library; she heard the fluent Persian language effortlessly tripping from his tongue, beautiful and exotic. _

_The piano in the ballroom, where he had played and she had danced… for one brief moment, they had let down their guard, giving in to the passion that sang in their blood._

_When Hale came to say his goodbyes before Murray spirited them away to the docks, she had to bite down upon her lip to keep from asking if Erik had bid the Sûreté agent goodbye before his departure, and if Hale knew whether he had reached Calais safely. _

_And as she and her family donned the costume of the costermonger and slipped onto the fishing boat bound for Portsmouth, the Comtesse couldn't help but remember the last time she had disguised herself as a boy. She had just parted from her angel then, as well, stealthily slipping out of the Opéra Populaire and into the mayhem of Paris. _

Perhaps he is again under the opera house, _she mused_, sitting at his organ, writing his music…

_Murray had guided them through Portsmouth to the Royal Navy dockyard, dressed head to toe in his officer's uniform. The plan was to sail to Palestine aboard the H.M.S. Inflexible, the innovative ship that kept the peace upon the Mediterranean waters and Egyptian ports. The warship was bound for Alexandria, but would detour to the coastal town of Jaffa, allowing the extra passengers to depart via a skiff. From there, they would travel through the hills by horse and carriage and slip into the city under the cover of night._

_The mild days spent aboard the British cruiser were a welcome relief to the frigid January weather of London. While the air was still cool, the high sun and sea breezes only necessitated a light wrap and scarf. In fact, the thunderstorms that had rolled through in the morning and afternoon hours had been the only rough weather they had encountered since leaving England. _

_Almost daily, Christine walked the decks of the metal giant with her little son, marveling at the odd combination of smokestacks and billowing sails. Murray had joined Jean-Paul and her on several such strolls, when his duties allowed him time away. Like a child anxious to please, he had pointed out the different features of his ship, his brogue becoming more pronounced as his excitement grew._

"_She's the first ship to use an underwater armor deck in place of vertical armor along the waterline. Tha' armor is 60 centimeters thick o'er there in the central box citadel—the thickest ever used in a British warship. __Inflexible__'s also the first boat to be fitted wi' electric light, though Captain Jackie Fisher prefers to go withoot it at night, just to keep the crew oon their toes. An' ded I mention tha' the gal was rated the best ship o' the fleet because the crew has perfected the sail handling? Although, when we return to port later this year, the sails'll be replaced by fightin' tops…"_

_Christine nodded along, trying to follow his English but missing half of the words. She absently ran her hand along the deck railing, every now and again pausing to feel the salty sea breeze upon her face or lift her child when he grew weary. Murray would slow his stride to stare up at the turrets with their 80-ton guns, becoming completely engrossed in the glory of the ship and forgetting that anyone else was present. _

_Once in awhile, land would come into view on the horizon and the Scotsman told her which foreign country she had spotted, based upon the hour and number of days they had been at sea. _

"_Tha' island there is Malta, Mme. de Chagny. Means tha' we're just off the coast of Sicily. If we had a spot o' time, we would stop at the port in Valletta and let ye get your land legs back a bit."_

_While the sailor chattered on about the different Mediterranean ports—Tunis, Athens, Tripoli, Monaco—the Comtesse struggled to push back her melancholy. The only meaning she garnered from these strange places was that France was fading into the distance. She knew, however, she should be grateful to the man for pulling her out of her suite and putting forth the effort to make her at ease upon the vessel. So the woman would silently walk on, smiling up at the officer when it was called for, though the expression never quite reached her eyes…_

The weight of the mattress shifted, and Christine spun around to find that her little son had wandered from his adjoining room and plopped down on one of her pillows. Slowly exhaling, the mother forced back her grief and pulled Jean-Paul close, cradling the toddler in her arms.

The child burrowed his face into her shoulder and pressed a tiny hand against her cheek, his fingers sticky with some sugary substance. Laughing, she pulled his hand away and kissed it, tasting faint traces of honey upon his skin.

"Jean-Paul, _mon petit_, have you found somebody with sweets aboard the ship?"

The boy wagged his head up and down. "Jackie's _Maman_!" her little son cried, meaning Mrs. Fisher—the Captain's wife. He swung his other hand around to show his mother a half-eaten sticky bun.

Christine nodded earnestly, determined not to think about how long he had actually been in possession of the treat.

Jean-Paul forced the bun upon the woman's mouth and she pretended to take a bite. She tickled his ribs, and he began to giggle wildly; a wide, toothy grin spread across his face as he tried to push her hands away.

The mother's breath caught in her throat, seeing something in her child that she had never observed before. _Why, Jean-Paul has Raoul's smile…oh, his mouth is his own, but he smiles like his father…_

With an aching wistfulness, she realized that her son was growing too quickly for her liking. The little tunics and playsuits that had been rather big for him in Paris were now creeping up his baby arms and legs, becoming snug around his middle. Just the other morning, as they watched dolphins swim in the wake of the ship, he had squealed with delight and proclaimed, "Look at the fish!" Jean-Paul had never uttered a complete sentence before, and the words had caught her off-guard.

The mother smiled upon her son, removed the sticky bun from his fingers, and pushed back the black, wispy curls from his forehead. "Your Papa would be thrilled to know how much you love the sea, my little man," she whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek. The child squirmed in her arms and looked up into her face, his expression suddenly clouding. Christine watched in surprise as his cheerful demeanor disappeared and his lower lip began to tremble, signaling the rapidly approaching onslaught of tears. She pulled him close again, rocking the child in her arms.

"Whatever is the matter, _mon petit_?"

"Want Papa," he scowled, put a fist to his eyes, and wiped away the tears that had begun to fall.

The Comtesse studied her child's face in confusion. It had been many months since Jean-Paul had ceased to call out for his Papa, and at last she had begun to believe he understood that Raoul had "gone away." She had often made mention of "Papa" to her son, and he had never once reacted with tears. Tilting the boy's face up, she gently gazed upon him.

"Jean-Paul, Papa is gone, remember?"

The two-year-old blankly stared at her as if she were insane. Slowly, he shook his head and glared at his mother. "Want Papa," he repeated more firmly this time, touching his sticky fingers to his face.

Christine blinked several times in bewilderment, her mouth gaping. _Surely he can't mean?…_

"What is this, Jean-Paul?" she whispered, touching her fingers to her face as her son had done.

The boy frowned in concentration, struggling to remember the correct words to describe what he wanted. At last, his eyes flew wide and he rocked forward on his knees to pat his _Maman_'s cheek.

"The cover!" he proclaimed with pride, and threw himself back into his mother's lap.

Christine's arms unconsciously came around the boy as she fought to grasp hold of what the child had just imparted to her.

_Is it possible that he…that my son believes Erik is his Papa? _

Her thoughts rapidly raced over all that had happened since Raoul's death. Jean-Paul had been just three months shy of his second birthday when his father had died. The boy, however, had always been observant—his wide blue eyes took in everything. He was a bright child, and he knew what a "Papa" was…

A "Papa," to her little boy, was a man that took a special interest in him. Praised him when he did something good and corrected when he was naughty. He was a man that taught him new things, such as notes on the piano or stories of ancient mammoths. And above all else, he was a man that the boy's _Maman_ would love and depend upon…

Christine's face went ashen. "Jean-Paul, could you possibly—do you mean Erik?' she whispered, glancing down at the top of his curly head, seeking to confirm what she already knew to be true.

The boy nodded vigorously against her shoulder, pleased that his mother at last understood what he had told her. For in the child's eyes, who else could Papa possibly be, but the masked man?

"_Mon Dieu_…God in heaven!" Swiftly depositing her son on one of the pillows, the woman leapt from the bed and scanned the room as if searching for an answer to her dilemma. Putting a hand to her forehead, she began to pace back and forth, panicking at the revelation. She truly had no clue which steps to take; in fact, she was not even sure how she should feel at such a moment. _Anxious over Jean-Paul's mistake? Angry? Elated?_

Christine stopped pacing and sucked in her bottom lip, fighting to put a coherent thought together. Taking several deep breaths, she focused on the immediate.

_First step…Erik may or may not know about this. It seems more likely that he doesn't, for he would have made mention of it if he had. Then again, he might not have…_

The woman strode over to the pitcher at the table, picked up the small glass, and poured water into it. Downing the cool liquid in several gulps, she filled it again, then resumed her pacing.

_Perhaps if I just explained to Jean-Paul that Erik is not his Papa…_She turned to speak to her child, but when she saw his shining blue eyes watching her with innocent joy, the words died upon her lips. _What if someday, just maybe, Erik truly does become his father…do I now want to tell my son he isn't, and risk confusing him in the future? _As things currently stood between them, however, the possibility of such an event occurring seemed dim.

Christine longed for her angel's guidance. He would know what to do, how best to handle her little son without shattering his trusting mind. If only she knew how to reach him in Paris…

_Nadir! He has to know how to contact Erik; they have corresponded with each other all along, have they not? _She shrugged into her dark wool coat, then fetched Jean-Paul's from his room and slid his arms into the small sleeves. Scooping up the boy, she flew to the door and swung it open.

Barreling into the hallway, she ran headlong into the very man that she was seeking. The Persian staggered back in surprise as the Comtesse nearly knocked him over. Grasping her shoulders to prevent her and her child from stumbling, he waited until she was steady before dropping his hands.

"A thousand apologies, Mme. de Chagny," he declared, his voice filled with sincere regret. "I was just coming to fetch you to my chambers for the meeting. The others are already there, but Mlle. Nitot suggested that I collect you, since you have been ill today…" His words trailed away as he took in the woman's ashen face and bewildered eyes.

"What has happened, Madame?"

Christine grasped the man's sleeve with the hand that wasn't supporting Jean-Paul, her eyes pleading with his. "M. Khan, I need you to pass something along to Erik for me. Please, it is extremely important!"

The Persian's started at the woman's fervor, unconsciously taking several steps back. She followed him, still clutching at his shirt. He put a hand to the back of his neck and studied her at length. Sighing, he held out his hand in a gesture of defeat.

"Very well, I shall oblige—but after our conversation with M. David. However, I must admit that this entire situation is beginning to wear upon my patience. Not that it is your fault, Madame," he grumbled, rushing on before the Comtesse could protest. "My friend, your 'angel', has a tendency to push my limits of tolerance." He offered his elbow to Christine. Reluctantly biting back her desire to ask more of his relationship with the masked man, she took his arm.

* * *

The overwhelming smell of Arab coffee filled the nostrils of those gathered in Nadir Khan's small room. Though the night was blustery and cold, his chambers were unusually warm, due to the bodies crowded together.

M. David was seated in a chair pushed back against the opposite wall, with the Persian hovering over him. Norry and Papi both sat on the edge of the daroga's bed. Murray stood at the door and warily eyed the _avocat_, his arms folded across is chest. Christine had been given the only other chair in the room, as she held her son upon her lap.

"Mme. de Chagny, for the chill." The Persian offered her a steaming cup of the liquid, warmly smiling down upon her. Not wishing to appear rude, she accepted the small cup from the man and slowly put the strong liquid to her lips. The bitter flavor was overpowering; she swiftly drained the hot coffee in several gulps, letting the last bit drain down her throat. Before she could close her lips, however, and unexpected mass of sludge poured into her mouth and she began to gag on the awful stuff. Her eyes watering, she covered her lips and forced the vile coffee residue down her throat.

A soft chuckle sounded. Christine's eyes flew up to find Nadir Khan smiling at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Shaking his head, he wiped the levity from his face and gestured for M. David to begin.

Henri glanced at the faces trained upon him, his gaze at last coming to rest upon the Comtesse's. He sighed resignedly, his fatigued eyes meeting hers.

"Christine, must Jean-Paul be present for this?"

The woman smirked. "What is the matter, Henri? Are you afraid of a two-year-old's scrutiny?" Her expression grew serious again. "He is here because I want you to face Raoul de Chagny's child while you speak. As of late, you seem to need reminding of your loyalties."

Drops of perspiration beaded up on the lawyer's forehead, and he patted it with a handkerchief. Tucking the bit of cloth away, he took a shaky breath and began.

"What I know of _Fraternité_ has been told to me by my eldest brother, Michel David—the Marquis de Bourges." Henri glanced at his audience's faces to gauge their reaction to the noble title. When no one displayed signs of veneration, he continued on in disappointment.

"I was unaware that it even existed until early November, after I was paid a visit by M. Khan and that masked friend of his. Not long after our…discussion, Monsieur, Michel summoned me to his Paris residence. The conversation began casually enough; he inquired after my health, my circle of friends, current cases, and so on. And then he became serious, guarded. If you have met my brother," he nodded towards Christine, "you would know that he is always 'serious' and 'guarded'. So it was not his demeanor that surprised me, but his sudden line of questioning."

" 'What exactly is your involvement with Raoul de Chagny's widow?' he asked. I replied that we remained good friends even after her husband's death, and I was serving as her personal estate _avocat_. He continued to prod, and I revealed that she was in a bit of trouble, an issue I was assisting her in. Michel frowned and stared me down—you know how cold his gaze can be, Christine—but I did not waver. 'Is that all, Henri? No romantic entanglements?'"

At this point, M. David's face began to redden profusely, and his eyes flicked up to study the Comtesse.

"I admitted to him that I was in love with Mme. de Chagny, and planned to marry her once her period of mourning was finished; any earlier would be considered improper. I still love her, even now…"

Christine looked awkwardly to the floor, away from the man's earnest gaze. Her mouth and eyes were heavy with mortification—she had not known until that moment how Henri had felt about her. _If you could truly call what he feels…love, _she pondered.

The lawyer stared at the embarrassed woman at length, then hung his head in resignation. With a sigh he began to speak again, his voice no longer tinged with confidence.

"My brother nodded along as I told him of my plans, listening carefully. He offered me the usual cigar and brandy, sat across from me with a relaxed demeanor, and nonchalantly mentioned that he could assist me in my endeavors on behalf of the Comtesse. At first I was taken aback when he told me of a secret brotherhood our family had belonged to for almost eighty years. So secret, in fact, that only the eldest son of each generation was allowed to know of it. Of course, I then inquired as to why he was telling me, the youngest of the seven David brothers, about the brotherhood. This is the story that he imparted to me:

'_Fraternité_ is a society of men, numbering in fifty or so, that rose up from the ashes of the disbanded Jacobin Club after the French Revolution.' " The _avocat_ glanced to M. Khan in apology, and assumed his best lawyer's voice. "For those who do not know of the Jacobin Club, their ideals of a France free from the confines of the societal hierarchy were the driving force behind the Revolution. The Jacobins were made up of professionals, bourgeoisie, and several of the aristocracy, all united by one purpose: to limit the power of the monarchy and let the people decide France's destiny. Throughout the club's ranks, the cries of _liberté, egalité,_ and _fraternité_ could be heard—they published it in their pamphlets, newspapers, engraved it in their walls…"

The lawyer paused to draw breath, and Nadir took the opportunity to interrupt the _avocat's_ enthusiastic tale.

"M. David—while this is a refreshing reminder of the past, I can assure you that all present know of the Jacobin Club, their leaders' rise to power, the conspiracies, and their Reign of Terror. We need not delve into the gruesome details of Madame Guillotine and her blood bath."

The _avocat_ nodded and nervously patted his forehead again. "Forgive me, M. Khan, I was not aware…" He cleared his throat and resumed his story. "Robespierre and other prominent Jacobin leaders were executed, the club dispersed, and its members went into hiding. After the massacre of the aristocracy and many political opponents, to be a Jacobin in post-revolutionary France was not the popular way of life. All were persecuted, some were killed. On several different occasions, the group tried to resurrect itself, only to be stifled by the new government. It was not until Napoleon's reign that the Society began to secretly flourish again, under the careful administrations of its more moderate members that had left before the Reign of Terror—namely Marcel David, the Marquis de Bourges; another was Georges Léon, the Comte de Chagny."

A gasp sounded across the room and all eyes flew to the corner. Papi covered her mouth in astonishment, her cheeks flushing at the abrupt attention. "I apologize for the interruption, M. David. I was surprised to learn that Georges de Chagny was a Jacobin; that is all."

"As was I, Mlle. Nitot. My brother, however, explained that Georges and Marcel kept low profiles during the Revolution, thus losing nothing when the Jacobins failed. And if the Committee of Public Safety had maintained power, then they would have been all the stronger for supporting the cause in the first place."

"A game of roulette," the maid whispered. Suddenly, the legend of the Comte did not glisten as it once had. In fact, she now thought his actions rather cowardice…

"Chagny, David, and other prominent Jacobins had a vision of a new Society; one that operated on the principles of the club before it had spiraled into the madness of revolution. Chagny felt that the only way for _Fraternité_ to be successful was to set strict guidelines for membership and adhere to them religiously. These are the rules, as Michel explained to me:

"First, to be a part of _Fraternité_, one must be a direct descendent of a Jacobin. This is why most families pass the membership from father to eldest son—to keep the club as 'pure' as possible. The eldest son is raised to appreciate the importance of the organization and to know that they have a duty to the brotherhood, above all other duties.

"Second, each member must be influential in their particular sphere of society. _Fraternité _is not simply a club for wealthy boys of the aristocracy. Like the original Jacobin Club, it is a mix of people from all walks of life: politicians, businessmen, artists, aristocrats, writers. Many have nothing in common, except for one thing – a desire to use their power for the betterment of France.

"That leads to the last rule—each member should use their influence to advance the brotherhood's cause. They must be willing to sacrifice family, friends, even their life for the common good. If any brother refuses to adhere to the last guideline, he will be expelled. And in extreme cases, if it is necessary…killed."

M. David's last word hung in the air, the weight of it heavy upon the minds of all who heard his tale. Everyone knew what the next, logical query was, yet nobody could muster the courage to ask, for fear of the answer. At last, Christine de Chagny, pale and ill, gave voice to the unspoken words. Her voice was soft and hoarse.

"Henri," she whispered, "was my husband a part of _Fraternité_? If so, why did they turn against him? He loved France as much as anyone…"

The lawyer nodded, his eyes reflecting the sadness of the Comtesse's. "Apparently after Philippe drowned, Raoul inherited membership to the club as part of the duties that came with the title of 'Comte.' Though he was the younger son, most of the brothers insisted that a Chagny be a part of _Fraternité_, since one of the clubs founding fathers was of that particular family. It is tragic, really, that Georges de Chagny's insistence upon strict guidelines ultimately led to his own progeny's death…"

Christine's eyes slit in fury at the lawyer's flippancy. "Not death, Henri—murder! Your beloved, enlightened _Fraternité_ murdered a good man! They tried to kill me and—" she silently pointed to the sleeping Jean-Paul on her lap. "Now, I want you to tell me once and for all—_why_?"

"I do not know, Christine—"

All of a sudden, the _avocat_ bolted up in his chair and wildly glanced about the room, his eyes wide with fright. Taking in the startled faces of his companions, realization flooded into him and he struggled to compose his features. He glared up at the silent daroga.

"I can assure you, M. Khan, that I am _not _lying. I was not even aware that Mas Quennell was responsible for Raoul's death until…until that night in London." His pleading eyes turned to Christine. "All my brother imparted was that after Raoul died, the oath of _Fraternité _disappeared. I cannot even tell you what _that_ is, except an extremely important document that has been entrusted to the Chagny family since the beginnings of the club. The leaders are certain that he gave it to you, Christine, and swore you to secrecy. I know nothing more—"

M. David started again, his eyes flying about the room in accusation. "Who said that?"

Norry shook his head in wonder at the quaking lawyer's antics. "That one is comin' unhinged," he murmured incredulously.

His daughter nodded in agreement. "He is under a great deal of stress, Papa."

Only the Persian seemed unsurprised by the blubbering man's odd behavior. Christine leveled suspicious eyes upon Nadir and studied his composed features. After several minutes, he noticed her scrutiny and let a blank expression fall across his face.

At last, after several shuddery breaths, the _avocat_ composed himself enough to continue. "Very well! _Fraternité_ promised to make me a part of their brotherhood if I recovered the oath. Mas was to accompany me to London to ensure that I found it. I did not know what he was planning to do, Christine, I swear. I would never intentionally endanger you like that—I wanted to marry you, for Godsake! If I became a part of _Fraternité_, I would have connections beyond belief…wealth…power and influence… think of the life I could give you…" He stared at the woman again, once more testing the waters. "I still wish to marry you…"

The Comtesse stood abruptly, clutching her sleeping child. Her voice trembled with controlled anger. "You do not want me, Henri—you hardly know me. What you want is an ornament to display in your dainty social circles. I am sorry, but no." She made a move towards the door. Before she could sweep from the room, however, the daroga's arm came out and gently grasped her elbow.

"Mme. de Chagny, there is still one more question we must ask of M. David before you leave for the evening. I know that you are tired and ill, but you may wish to stay."

Christine paused in her retreat, then wearily turned from the door and leaned against the wall. "Very well. Please continue, Monsieur." The Persian solemnly nodded.

"What can you tell us of Mas Quennell?"

The lawyer, this time, was more willing to oblige. "Philippe de Chagny brought Mas from Russia when Raoul and I were just children—do you remember, Papi? We were in awe of the thin, mysterious valet from the land of ice. In reflection, however, I rather think that he was never a valet at all, but more of a…"

"Brother?" finished Christine, bitterly.

The lawyer nodded, oblivious to her sarcasm. "Michel was the one who suggested I hire him as my valet after Raoul passed away. I thought it was a splendid idea at the time, but now I am inclined to believe the club wanted him in my household so they could keep an eye on the Chagny estate business.

"After becoming privy to the secrets of _Fraternité_, I have since learned that M. Quennell is highly regarded within the organization. You have seen the ring he wears? Only a handful of the members own them…not even the Chagnys possessed one. From what I understand, it was Mas that first brought the _Narodnaya Volya_ to the attention of the club…"

He paused for a moment in deliberation. To Christine, it seemed as though he was weighing some important decision; she could all but see the battle raging within his normally dim eyes. Taking a cautious step forward, the woman lightly placed a hand on her former friend's shoulder in half-hearted encouragement.

"I can understand why you did what you did, Henri, though I daresay it was the most foolish act of self-advancement I have seen from you yet." She loosed a feeble smile and sighed, turning to leave the room.

The lawyer's hand swiftly fell across hers and he grasped it tightly.

"There is one more thing, Christine," he whispered. "Before I came to London, I attended one of _Fraternité'_s meetings. I cannot tell you how to locate them, for they blindfolded me when I entered the carriage. All of the members wore black cloaks and hoods to protect their identities from me…all except Mas Quennell. I was shocked to find him there; at that time, I still thought him only my valet. His eyes followed my every movement as if mocking me, _challenging_ me. He wanted me to understand how powerful he truly was, and that a snap of his fingers could send me to the bottom of the Seine.

"After the meeting, life returned to normal and the feeling passed. I became convinced it had been my overly-excited paranoia influencing me. But the night he…hurt you, I realized my first impression had been correct. This man is cruel and bitter, Christine—full of hatred. And he is powerful. Be careful when crossing him…although, I do not need to tell _you_ that." The _avocat_ at last fell silent, his hand falling away from hers.

The Comtesse studied the man a moment longer, then turned away in pity. _The poor, vain boy, _she mulled. _This men's club, this brotherhood, never intended to allow Henri into their numbers at all! He is a pawn in their games, whatever they are. What is more, he still does not realize his own brother has played him for a fool. _

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost missed it—the whispered words had nearly been lost as M. David resumed his incoherent babbling. In fact, she would not have heard it at all if she had been sitting across the room in her chair, instead of standing next to the trembling Henri.

"Oh please," the _avocat_ cried, "there is nothing more to tell! I beg of you, do not throw me overboard!"

The Persian shook the boy firmly, struggling to quiet him. "_Maalesh_! No one shall touch you, Monsieur! Now cease this drivel at once—you are frightening the women."

Christine buried her face in Jean-Paul's curly hair to smother the smile that played upon her lips. Her suspicions had been confirmed—M. David was not, in fact, losing his mind as Norry and Papi assumed. She knew better, for she had heard the voice as well.

When the panicked lawyer had heard the whispered "Shall we feed him to the sea, daroga?" he indeed had just cause to be frightened.

Her angel was often cruel in rather clever ways.

Hoisting her slipping child upon her hip, the woman wandered onto the deck, the cold night air a welcome relief to the stifling warmth of the crowded room. So many revelations were whirling about in her head…Jean-Paul's innocent belief that Erik was his father…Henri's unconventional proposal…the tale of the Jacobins…the secrets Raoul had kept from her.

_All of this knowledge simply raises more questions. There is so much yet to discover… _

Sighing, the Comtesse slowly made her way back to her room. Oddly enough, however, all worries and fears were eclipsed by the one bit of knowledge pulsing through her very core…

_No matter what I discover about Raoul, wherever the waves of chaos carry me, I shall never be alone._

Breathing in the fresh sea air, she paused at her door, absorbing the peaceful calm after the storm.

"Goodnight, Erik," she whispered.

**

* * *

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.**

If you are itching for more _Fraternité_ and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "_Frat _party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.


	21. The Lion of Jerusalem

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for that bad-boy gatekeeper!

**Side Notes:** **  
**

Now that Frat is at transitional point in the plot (either halfway through or two-thirds, not quite sure yet – but nowhere close to being finished, I promise!) I want to say some thank yous. First of all, I can't possibly tell all of you Frat readers how much your squeeing, reviewing, and overall feedback has motivated me to keep writing. A lot of work goes into creating each chapter – each installment averages a 6,000 word-count, and a good deal of time is spent in research before I even sit down to type. There have been several different occasions when I was just about ready to bang my head against the keyboard, when I received an encouraging review that renewed my motivation.

Frat is my baby (as many of you have heard me refer to it), and I feel so blessed to have such an intelligent, mature audience who appreciates the work put into it. I have had little to no problems with flaming, and even when a reader disagrees with a certain aspect of the story, they have done so respectfully and privately.

Y'all truly are the best readers a lil' ol' phic author could ask for:)

Several individual thank yous – 

Kudos to the several daring souls that have braved my penchant for over-using commas…the betas. Barefoot Advocat, Le Chat Noir, and Juni. I would never post a word without one of them looking it over first.

Thanks to the people I have asked for help with research – Chat, Juni, Kyrie74, and Musique et Amour. Your assistance and suggestions have been truly valuable.

Muchos Gracias to several readers who have reviewed almost every single chapter since I began the story – Sue Raven, monroe-mary, Mithril, phantomy-cookies, Padme, Random Battlecry, Mini Nicka, NorthAngel, Mireiyu. There may be more, forgive me if I did not list you!

And then there are the detailed, extremely helpful reviews that I wish I could review in return! – Senna Wales, Phantomy, and Scarlett O'Hara – y'all blow me away.

I only named a few people, but really, I appreciate each and every encouragement, even if it's as simple as "Smile!" ( I did, when someone wrote that), or "Please don't let her die!" (hehe, I didn't, did I?).

And finally, a big thanks to the wonderful Frat!Pack-ers at PFN and PPN.

You all keep me grounded in semi-reality.

I get these questions pretty often, so I thought I'd put the answers out there for everybody. A quick Q and A – 

_Q: Will you abandon Frat and leave us with the dreaded infinite cliff-hanger?_

A: Hell's bells, no! I have put waaay too much time into this story not to finish it. I love writing. I would not abandon my child, so I won't abandon my story. Ask anyone who knows me – I'm a determined little minx!

_Q: What the heck is going on in Fraternité?_

A: All will unfold with time. Would I leave loose ends? (quickly checks for loose ends)

_Q: (wary look) Are you Susan Kay?_

A: Ha! I wish! Her book is going for $80 on e-bay. Frat is free.

_Q: When will there be some creaking?_

A: Gratuitous lovin' would detract from the story, because that's not what Frat is about. Yes, it is a love story, but not a steamy romance novel. It will only happen if the plot calls for it, folks.

_Q: When you wrote such-and-such phrase, were you alluding to something?_

A: More than likely – each chapter has quite a bit of foreshadowing and symbolism in it. I explain some of it on my web site

_Q: What does Erik look like?_

A: With Frat!Erik, I've tried to create a sort of "hybrid" character by borrowing physical and emotional attributes from each of the versions. Leroux's yellow eyes, ALW's half-mask and voice, Kay's wit, a touch of Gerik's the movie physique (because I am a girl that has to muse over her character a lot when she writes), though Frat!Erik is older and a bit thinner. All of them have a sense of style—so does Frat!Erik. Anything else, I leave up to your imagination—including the garish face behind the mask :) But let me assure you, its no small birthmark!

_Q: Which POTO version is Frat based on?_

A: As with Erik, I have created a mix from several of the versions. This goes for the other characters, as well as the background story. Frat is not strictly a continuation of one particular version, such as Leroux or ALW. I have taken bits and pieces from each to create a new version. I _can _say that Erik's background is based on Leroux and Kay. The events at the _Opéra Populaire,_ as well Erik and Christine's relationship, are mainly ALW with some Leroux (Philippe's involvement, César, certain dialogue). Christine and Raoul's childhoods are based on Leroux. Sorry, no "Erik Destler" in this one!

_Q: Who are Frat!Baby and Badass!Erik?_

A: Pet names for Jean-Paul and Frat!Erik used at PPN

_Q: What does "Pants that Baby" mean?_

A: Beta Chat began a "Pants that Baby" campaign in response to Frat!Baby's lack of pants under his tunic (he wears bloomers)

If you'd like to ask me about anything, feel free to e-mail or look me up at PFN or PPN. I am more than happy to answer any questions you have!

Now, on to our feature presentation.

* * *

**The Lion of Jerusalem  
Jerusalem, 1885**

The cold gravel crunched under his leather-clad feet as he drifted along the base of Suleiman's wall. All about him, the land lay veiled in the blackness of the cloud-covered night; not even a sliver of moon was permitted to steal through the dense cover. The man reached out as he pressed forward, letting his fingers brush along the rough, sandy stone of the old city's imposing fortress.

_There she is, just at the base of the hill…_

His heart pounded from the thrill of the chase.

Rounding the corner, he ducked back again and pulled his hood down to shield the white of his face, which glowed around the edges of the black mask he wore. The small party of travelers had halted their progress and stared up at one of the wall's battlements. Erik watched from a distance as the Persian pointed to the merlons and embrasures and gestured with his hands, mimicking the firing of an arrow. While he spoke, the others nodded along with his story, engrossed in his words.

_More than likely one of his old yarns about the Safavid Empire,_ Erik mulled wordlessly, impatient to finish the journey. _If that long-winded fool keeps her outside in this cool air any longer, she will be ill again…_

As if the cold wind had heard his thoughts, a gust spun up the side of the hill and swept around the foreigner, causing the edge of his cape and _thob_ to snap and billow about his dusty, bare ankles. The masked man gathered the dark material closer to him and peered down the hill to the people on the Ofel Road. Like him, they also were shrouded in black cloaks to make their entry into Jerusalem as inconspicuous as possible.

He had followed the Chagny household at a safe distance since their arrival in Palestine. Having departed from the _H.M.S. Inflexible_ earlier that day, the man then waited for them in Jaffa, invisibly pursuing their carriage all the way to the outskirts of Jerusalem. The hill leading up to the city, however, was too steep for the horses to navigate, so the passengers had gathered their few possessions to climb on foot. Quietly slipping from his own carriage, he expertly maneuvered up the rocky slope with practiced grace and receded into the shadows of the medieval wall, before anyone caught sight of his lithe frame.

The man looked on as Christine took a few cautious steps up the hill, struggling to find her footing on the smooth cobblestones. Clutching her small son in her arms, the Comtesse peered out from behind her dark hood, her soft skin illuminated by the dim light spilling from old Norry's lantern. She studied the task before her with trepidation. Shifting Jean-Paul to her hip, she gathered up the length of impractical skirting and began the long climb to the Lion's Gate. The worn soles of her shoes slipped time after time over the round rocks, forcing her to put a hand on the path directly in front of her.

_Merde, daroga,_ Erik thought hotly, _can you not see she is about to tumble down that road?_ He started from the gloom, involuntarily stepping forward to assist his protégé. The slight movement was enough to warn the Persian, however, who glanced up to the wall towards the masked man. His eyes immediately fell upon the shady figure. Remembering himself, Erik ducked into the corner again and watched as his friend nodded and tossed his satchel to Henri David. The _avocat_, already struggling under the strain of the "entirely vexing" trip, was unprepared for the added weight and collapsed to the ground, unceremoniously landing on his aristocratic derriere.

Ignoring the lawyer, Nadir gently scooped Jean-Paul from his mother's arms and helped her regain her footing. Murmuring a word of thanks, Christine untangled her feet from her petticoats and lifted them up, putting an arm out to steady herself. Breathing a sigh of relief, the woman pressed forward with greater ease.

The shadowed ghost simpered at the caricature lawyer, downtrodden and pathetic in his hardship. Erik felt an overwhelming sense of triumph at the boy's expense—and not an ounce of pity.

_He deserves to be humiliated, degraded, and laughed at for loving her, for daring to claim her as his wife. My angel, my—_

Christine paused in her upward trek to fleetingly look down at the lamenting M. David. Her eyes filled with sympathy, she extended a pale, fragile hand to the man. Gratitude suffused his browbeaten features and he grasped her fingers, pulling himself to his feet once more.

Erik's cruel thoughts were at once rebuffed. His heart twisted in his chest as he observed his angel grace the fallen man with her kindness. His head fell back against the cold stone, and he gazed on in mute admiration. He should have known that Christine would not overlook another's suffering. As much as he hated Henri David and everything he pretended to be, he could not help but feel relief that his angel had not begrudged the man her compassion…that she still clung to her beautiful ways. After the commanding and breathtaking manner she had handled the lawyer in the London cellar, her teacher had been afraid he had instructed her too well—that bitterness would consume her gentle spirit. Yet she was still able to forgive…

He loved her for her compassion.

Once, she had bestowed her mercy upon him, that fateful night below the opera house. He had done all he could to make her hate him, to make her suffer for her betrayal. In the end, however, she had not deserted him…not until he sent her away.

_My angel of mercy…does she now believe _I _have deserted _her?

As he watched the Comtesse and the _avocat_ fight their way up the slope, an odd notion suddenly struck him. Was this how Raoul de Chagny had felt, a lasso tight about his throat, forced to watch his beloved lift an undeserving monster up from the darkness? The corners of his mouth quirked in amusement; funny, how he should sympathize with Christine's boy-husband.

And then another thought came to him, causing all humor to flood from his body as rapidly as it had arisen. The Comte de Chagny had loved his wife—more than his heritage, his duty, even his life—above all else. The boy had been willing to _die_ for her that night in the cellars.

According to the rules of _Fraternité_, however, was not such devotion forbidden, if it came between a man and the brotherhood? Erik knew that if _he_ had been in the Comte's place, he would rather die than put his wife and child in harm's way…

_If Christine had been _my_ wife…_

He shook the blissful thought away, once again receding into the shadows. There were reasons, after all, why it must never happen. So many reasons…

And one such reason was becoming more and more prominent with every stride that led him closer to the holy city.

oooo

The pilgrims vanished through the weathered gate after a series of missteps upon loose cobblestones, hushed gasps of panic, and squeals of delight from Jean-Paul as he was bounced upon the daroga's back, clutching the César horse to his small body. Creeping closer to the entrance, Erik barely heard Nadir's whispered Arabic to the gatekeeper and the quiet clink of several coins. He waited for a good two minutes until he was sure the party had passed into the old city, then made his way up to the mouth of the beast.

The massive five-story wall towered above him, ominous and powerful in the dark night. Four lion's figures flanked the gate, serving as guardians of Suleiman the Magnificent's ancient prize. Long ago, Erik had been told, the mighty Sultan dreamed that such creatures would devour his beloved Jerusalem, unless he built a wall around the holy city. Now the guardians were smooth and worn with age. Yet they ruled with foreboding, their tails seeming to lash about in the flickering torchlight, their teeth gnashing in outrage at his intrusion.

_Perhaps they also guard against creatures such as me, _Erik grimly mused, transfixed by the illusion of movement. Slinging his satchel off of his shoulder, the masked man dug into the bag and retrieved three gold lira. He pulled his hood down to shadow his face and with a deep breath, advanced through the lion's jaws towards the gatekeeper.

The squat Arab smirked at the shrouded man, choosing to forgo the traditional greeting and cut to the chase. He pushed away the hood of his _abaya_ to reveal a Turkish cap, hoping to establish his authority over the mysterious traveler.

"_Matha tureed_?"

Erik sneered at the man's impertinence. "I should think it rather obvious, _sidi_—I wish to enter the city."

Without ceremony, the gatekeeper held out his palm. "Only men that wish to hide pass through the holy walls on a night when the moon sleeps. And wear a mask…_tsk_. Do you wish to hide, _Sadik_? There is a price for my silence."

Making a show of irritation, the masked man pressed a coin into the guard's greedy fingers and stepped aside, allowing for the gate to swing open. The gatekeeper did not move, however; he folded his arms across his chest, eyes slitting in thought.

"A small party from the north traveled through this very gate but moments ago. A man, his son and two daughters, with their Persian guide; one has lost a husband, and they make the pilgrimage of the cross to grieve. I suppose they are of no relation to you?" The man again held out his hand. "Again, there is a price."

With contempt, Erik tossed another lira at the guard. "This should be sufficient to buy your silence, _sidi_," he breathed dangerously. "You suppose correctly. I am simply an architect, here to study the great Roman cardo; I know nothing about the family of which you speak. _Nothing at all_." Derisively rapping upon the inside bars of the gate, he once more demanded entrance.

The gatekeeper slid the latch away and allowed the bars to swing open, the creaking hinges disturbing the quiet of the night. Erik strode past the man and into the holy city, his cloak whipping about in the tunnel draft.

Pausing to absorb his surroundings, he gazed upon the mighty stones of Jerusalem with the bearing of a king returning to his prized stronghold. His eyes skimmed over the roofs: domes rose above the flat edges, creating a geometric panorama that was beautifully stark against the black sky. Crosses and crescents mingled amongst one another, reminding him of the power this old city held over so many. Just beyond the buildings to his left towered the immense gold dome of _Haram Ash-Sharif_. Mere feet from that holy site stood another sacred place—the remaining wall of the Jewish temple. To the right of the road stretched chapels, convents and friaries, mixed among Muslim homes. And directly in front of him, somewhere at the end of the Via Dolorosa, was the Holy Sepulchre—the great Crusader church, blanketed in darkness. Three holy sites, all within a half-mile radius of each other. Buildings that men had shed blood for, had given their lives to.

Erik had never put much stock in the religious relics that concerned the rest of the human race. Twenty years ago, he had arrogantly strode down the very road he now stood upon, openly mocking the poor fools fighting to save their souls from damnation.

He shook his head. _I was_ _resentful and angry even then, though not much older than that Chagny boy is. _

_Was,_ he winced.

How he had sneered at their prayers and tears of repentance. He had rejoiced in the fact that he was already well acquainted with hell, and found no need for anything above it.

_But that was before I was granted a glimpse of her, _he mused bitterly, _and tasted heaven. _

_And now, the burning pyres of hell no longer satisfy me…_

Twenty years had passed since a heated young man had stalked the streets of Jerusalem, in service to the shah of Persia. Time had since aged him, made him wiser and less impulsive. _Though_ _perhaps just as dangerous_, he reflected.

The city, however, had not aged one mite. Behind Suleiman's fortress, all was the same as it had been for hundreds of years.

Erik slipped away from the Via Dolorosa and into a narrow side street, little more than four feet in width. Leaning against the wall, he breathed deeply of the night air, struggling to regain his composure. He cautiously peered about, then slipped a hand under his black mask and pulled it away, allowing the soft breeze to cool his mutilated flesh.

_Feel the cold against your bare skin…think on how it would be to walk maskless about the streets, freed from the barriers of this abhorrent face…_

_Anything to cowardly retreat from thoughts of the past. After all, did I not swear long ago never to think of Persia? _

The lover of trapdoors peered through the holy buildings again, searching for a particular twelfth century chapel amongst the stone walls. It was not hard to find: the filthy, unadorned building was a disparity to the clean white arches of the Franciscan monastery that surrounded it.

This was where it had happened, without a doubt—his first assassination on behalf of the shah.

Jerusalem was ancient and timeless, and she had a long memory. Would there still be those that remembered the odd strangulation of a holy man, and the ensuing hunt for an egotistical Frenchman with a magical lasso and a masked face? Though the murdered had been disliked among his peers at the Sepulchre, the Christian Quarter nevertheless cried "foul!" at the death of the priest. It was swiftly concluded that the suspicious pilgrim who had haunted the chapels for the past week committed the travesty—he had, in fact—they were not mistaken in their assumptions. Hastily going underground, however, he eluded them before the crime was even discovered. And he remained there for another two weeks, merely out of a morbid desire to see the whole dastardly thing play out, though the shah had requested he immediately travel back to Persia.

Only when he returned to Tehran did he find out why the man had been condemned to die at his hand.

"_Because you have served me exceedingly well, you will not be punished for your delinquency these past days," the shah proclaimed as Erik rigidly stood before him in the great throne room. "But know this, Magician—no man dares to ignore the commands of the Glory of Allah. If you choose to do so again, I shall have you design your own painful castigation."_

_The trapdoor lover bowed low, a smirk playing at his lips. "As the Great One commands me," he declared, his hint of sarcasm completely lost on the obtuse ruler. Clearing his throat, he took advantage of the shah's nonchalant mood. _

"_May I inquire, your majesty, why you desired the priest to be…out of the way?"_

_The ruler grunted in displeasure at the thought of the holy man. "The _dorogh gu_ served at the missions for years within our borders, and I tolerated his presence. It was when he left for the holy city and told our secrets to the Sultan's lap dogs that he became a threat." The shah waved his hand in dismissal and reached for his gold chalice. "The khanum is anxious for your return, Erik. Her boredom has seen many days, and she wishes for her death artist. Go now..."_

The khanum. Erik scowled in disgust at the remembrance of the shah's evil mother. The woman had possessed a twisted addiction to ghastly, perverted deaths that only the most creative of minds could sate. And the magician with the gruesome face had been just the person to author such horrible details as would satisfy her wicked soul. He shook his head, fighting to permanently clear away memories of the devil-woman and Persia.

Such closeness to his old, wretched existence, however, only breathed life into the deadly trapdoor lover. He felt as if twenty years had not flown by at all, and he was still that youth prowling the churches, hunting for a disloyal priest.

_Conceited, acidic, filled to the brim with hatred..._ He could feel it crawling through his veins …the insatiable desire to kill all that dared to glance with curiosity at his masked face—

"The city is truly the jewel of men's hearts, is it not?"

The voice broke through his rumination, and Erik whipped the mask over his grisly visage once more. Whirling around, he came face to face with the Lion's Gate guardian. The man leisurely shook the two gold coins in his fist, jingling them about as if he played a small _riqq_.

"Or perhaps," he continued secretively, "the jewel of your heart is up the road at this very moment, walking into the French convent." He roguishly nudged the masked man's shoulder. "It would be a pity if she were to discover you followed her here in the dead of night. Or could it be that she awaits her lover? Either way, silence _does_ have a price…"

The harassed man angrily gritted his teeth and strode down the street without a sound. The gatekeeper matched his pace, chortling at the foreigner's avoidance.

"I wonder, _Sadik_, which of the pretty things you burn for—the golden one with red lips, or that tempting brown-haired _gahba_ who grasped her brother's hand—"

With a cry of rage, Erik seized the man's _abaya_ and dragged him all the way back to the dark city gate. He deftly swung his heel under the guard's legs and sent him flying to the floor, then dove on top of his stunned prey, pinning him to the ground before he could react. Flinging back his cloak, the lover of trapdoors drew a gilded Persian dagger from the hilt at his side and brandished it just above the trembling gatekeeper's face, allowing it to glint in the torchlight.

"Do you see this blade, you stinking camel _khara_? If you even dare to glance at either of those women, I shall not flinch when I slice a neat line across your flabby throat." He barred his teeth menacingly, a wild beast ready to strike. "Though I daresay the gory mess would be disagreeable."

The guard struggled wildly under Erik's strong limbs but he held firm, the man's attempts at escape only heightening his rage. The desire for the kill infused every cell of his body…red madness coated his mind, clouded his vision. He had captured his prey. Now all that was required was a flick of his knife, and he could feed on his prize—the heady drug of power. Control over death. It was his to claim, wasn't it? Did not this man deserve to die, this worthless soul that threatened the woman he loved?

_The woman I love…_

Somewhere, buried in the recesses of his mind, her words called to him_. "When shall you let go of your bitterness and hatred, Erik?" _

The words stung, quickly pulling him back to consciousness. He growled in bewilderment, for suddenly he did not know what to do with the man he had captured. Conflict raced through his mind as he saw his angel's tears, the overwhelming sadness she had suffered after the Kensington murder. He heard her gentle request that he come with her to Jerusalem…the black bruises upon her neck, still fresh and raw…

The trapdoor lover hit the ground next to the gatekeeper's head, causing the trounced man to flinch. Pressing the knife against the man's flesh, he nicked his cheek to add some sort of credence to his deadly threat.

"Damn you! She is a good woman, and a good mother. Leave her be."

Taking a deep breath, he swung away from the guard and sheathed his dagger once more.

The freed man nodded vigorously, struggling to sit up. "O _Sadik_, I swear that not a word shall be uttered, _insha'allah._" He wiped the trickle of blood from his face, then raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

Erik picked up his dusty satchel and brushed off the dirt, then reached into it to retrieve a coin purse. Tossing the small bag to the greedy guard, he snarled and turned away, his voice low and viperous.

"For your silence. I will only warn you once, however. If there is a next time, I shall cut out your tongue."

The defiant gatekeeper snorted. "Allah curse you, if you do."

The shah's favored one halted in mid-stride, his back going rigid. Then his shoulders relaxed and he slowly turned around, fixing the man with an icy glare of irony.

"I am already cursed, _Sadik_."

As he uttered the words, however—words he had proclaimed on many occasions—some unidentifiable emotion grasped hold of him. For the first time, the words had sounded hollow as they tripped from his tongue.

The voice again rang in his mind, tormenting him with its glorious sincerity.

"_All you have desired is within reach…" _

He had to get away, somehow…escape from the angel's voice that afflicted his mind and destroyed all he had ever relied upon. Swiftly kicking the gatekeeper in the groin, he muttered some incoherent words about payment for the trouble he had stirred. With a final warning and a deaf ear to the man's groan of pain, he fled up the Via Dolorosa, towards the French convent.

* * *

Nadir quietly sat on the third-story roof of the Notre Dame de Sion, puffing his tumbeki pipe and relaxing after the long, arduous journey. The rest of the household had immediately retired to their respective rooms the minute they arrived at the convent, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. The Persian, however, was not tired. It was magnificent to once more feel the dry wind of the Middle East upon his face after so many years of exile in Paris. The minarets of mosques rose up against the sky all around him, and he sighed in anticipation of the call to prayer at dawn. For so long, he had heard the _adhan_ only in his mind, morning after morning, the muezzin's voice rising and falling:

_Allah u Akbar…Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah… _

_Tomorrow, however, when the sun rose and the holy city came to life…_

The Persian took up his waterpipe and inhaled deeply, letting the rich tobacco filter through him. Chuckling lightly, he imagined the amusing spectacle that would ensue when the Europeans stumbled from their beds at the break of dawn in shock, wildly looking about as muezzin after muezzin began the echoing _Subh_ prayer. Oh yes, he impatiently awaited it.

"That poison will kill you, daroga."

Nadir leapt from his wooden chair and spun around, sending it clattering loudly across the veranda. "Erik, must you always manifest from thin air like that? For once, you could be considerate by stomping upon the stairs or clearing your throat to give some advanced warning."

The other man smirked. "On edge tonight, my friend? You needn't wake the entire convent—the holy sisters will already have more than enough reason to throw you off of their property, once they find that malodorous pipe of yours." The masked man swept onto the roof and grabbed the chair's spindles, setting it on all four legs again. "In any case, I didn't use the stairs—the doors were locked." He swung his cape over his arm and pulled himself onto the rooftop ledge, gesturing for the Persian to sit in the chair.

Nadir shook his head, preferring to stand at eye level with the man. "If you are worried about waking Madame de Chagny, you need not be. She already knows that you are not in Paris." It was Erik's turn to start. The daroga watched with satisfaction as a dark scowl formed on the man's face. "The clever girl figured it out the first time you were unable to control that reckless impulse of yours to torment Henri David. Therefore, you have no need to hide any longer. Take a room here at the Pilgrim's house, and be done with this nonsense."

His words did not have their desired effect, however. Erik's frown deepened to a grave expression, and the Persian observed that his friend was entrenched in one of his black moods.

"Nonsense?" the man cried heatedly. "For the love of God, Nadir, I should not have even returned to Jerusalem! Or have you forgotten that the shah's favorite has blood on his hands? And Christine—what would happen to her if I was discovered here? You know as well as I do that this _Fraternité_ would be preferable any day to the vengeance of the shah—"

"The shah of which you speak has been dead a good many years, _du stæm_. And Jerusalem is as excellent a place as any for the Chagny household—"

"Moreover," the masked man continued, ignoring his friend's interjection, "it is better for me to remain hidden, murdered priest or not. Someone must track down Sergei Dagaev; since you shall have your hands full with that self-righteous lackey who believes himself to be Christine's lover, the task falls to me. The Russian is here somewhere, hidden in the city. And he more than likely has answers to our questions."

The Persian silently studied the man before him, his jade eyes slit in concentration. He returned his pipe to his mouth and drew it several times, then slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke. At last he spoke, his words low and steady.

"Finding Dagaev is not what troubles you—you are in a black mood tonight, my friend. What has happened?"

Erik shook his head in denial, the gold of his eyes snapping in irritation. "Why would you assume that something has happened, daroga? Are you concerned that I may have murdered again?"

"Yes."

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze," the man sneered coldly. "You need not be concerned. The man nearly drove me to it, but I was able to stop myself."

Nadir's eyebrows flicked up in surprise. He curiously pressed on, his friend's words refreshingly uncharacteristic. "Who was he?"

"The gatekeeper—presumptuous, insolent man! Nadir, he was there, under my hands. Every instinct in me cried for blood, desired to end his miserable life, then and there."

"But you did not kill him?" the Persian again questioned, searching for reassurance.

"No."

He exhaled in relief. "What stayed your hand, _du stæm_?"

Erik's eyes filled with confusion. Holding his hand in front of him, he gazed down upon his fingers as if he half-expected to see blood or scratches, or other evidence of murder. For once, his hands were clean.

Nadir watched as the man swallowed hard at some remembered occurrence, his features softening.

"_She_ did. She stayed my hand." Erik leapt down from the ledge and began to pace about the room like a caged lion. "Damn it, Nadir, I hear those low, raspy words of hers in my head over and over. Every time I close my eyes, she's there—standing at the top of those cellar steps, beautiful, and dark, and…"

"Strong…like death."

"Yes! There have been very few times in my life, daroga, when I have felt so completely and utterly powerless. And almost all of those instances have involved _her_." He ran a hand over his tense face. "These circumstances—a man cannot live like this, not without wanting more. No matter where I go—Paris, London, even back to Tehran—I'll never be able to leave her behind. She has somehow taken complete control of me, nearly brought me to my knees…and I'll be damned if _anyone_ brings me to my knees!"

"The whisper of a pretty girl can be heard further than the roar of a lion." Nadir Khan chuckled at the masked man, whose normally cool, detached manner had been replaced by arcane agitation. "There really is only one solution to this dilemma of yours, my friend."

"Enlighten me, daroga," the man snapped.

"Marry her."

Erik whirled around to face the man, open-mouthed. Seeing that the daroga was wholly serious, he set about to promptly squelch the idea. "That has been attempted before, Nadir. The results were less than satisfactory, if you remember correctly."

"Perhaps you should try it again, with a bit more tact," the daroga shrugged.

"I am afraid I am not the marrying type, my friend." Shaking his head defiantly, he let his cape once more fall around his person and turned to go. "Anyway, I need not remind you that my purpose here isn't to find my way into the Comtesse's bed."

The Persian's hands flew up in exasperation, no longer amused by Erik's bull-headedness. "Very well then. Play your cat-and-mouse game until the day you die. That is all it is, really—another diversion you have invented to avoid the face in the mirror…a way to reject the person you _should_ be. But remember this, Trapdoor Lover—your games will destroy you in the end…"

"Another proverb, daroga? Christine is hardly a mouse." Erik leapt onto the roof ledge.

Nadir Khan winced as the masked man swung himself over the outcrop and onto the ornate corner of the convent. Leaning over the stone edge, he watched as Erik skillfully maneuvered his way down the entire three stories of the convent wall and jumped to the ground.

"And she shall be destroyed when you fall," he called after the man.

His cry faded into the night, however. If he had been heard, the trapdoor lover gave no sign of heeding him. Picking up his pace, Erik once again escaped up the Via Dolorosa and into the shadows of the night.

* * *

Again, thanks for reading! Please feel free to review – I listen to all feedback, both good and bad. 


	22. Of Roses and Thorns

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for Sister Helena, that sweet old nun that everyone wants to love, but finds a little too cheerful :)

**Side Notes:**

_Ch. 22 is for the daroga lovers out there. Three cheers for the Persian! Roses and Thorns also contains quite a bit of Lerouxism, so those who have not read the original POTO, get thee to a library and confess! (watches as corner of Leroux purists whoop and holler). Hehe—seriously, no worries if you haven't read it; you will be able to follow the chapter just fine._

_A couple of people have asked about Jerusalem and my descriptions. They are indeed firsthand (save for the 100-year difference). I spent some time in the Holy Land in college, digging up old stuff and studying the culture. And I'm telling you, once old city Jerusalem gets in your veins, you can't get it out again! I'm going to post some of my photography on my website (see profile) if readers would like to see the places I'm writing about._

_Thank you to Chat for her fabulous job betaing! And barefoot is back from her beta vacation, so she'll be on board for the next chapter. Loff zee betas!_

* * *

**Of Roses and Thorns  
**

_"He who wants a rose must respect the thorn" _

_Persian proverb_

"Christine, I find it hard to understand why you insist upon staying at this convent, when there are extremely nice, luxurious, and not to mention convenient hotels just outside this pile of old stones," the lawyer grunted as he struggled under the weight of the large water-filled basin. "That is where the rest of the fashionable French stay when they come to Jerusalem. And you would have no trouble finding a suitable place to bathe your child in one of their spacious suites. These bare rooms are nothing short of a jail cell—why, one can hardly turn a complete circle in their own bathroom without banging their shin on that infernal metal tub. It's a wonder they have plumbing at all!" He set the basin down with an indignant huff, accidentally sloshing soapy warm water onto the fine dress shoes he insisted on incongruously wearing with the baggy linen pants and _thob_ of the Middle East.

The Comtesse set her squirming son down, then straightened her back and stared at M. David incredulously. "And _I_ find it hard to understand how a man who was perilously close to being locked away in Scotland Yard can complain about the size of his bedroom—which, I might mention, does not have bars on the windows and door." Putting a hand to her forehead to shield the bright sun, she gazed onto the city bathed in light, its exotic streets pulsing with the rhythms of everyday life. She raised her eyes to the hills just beyond the wall, her gaze sweeping along their tree-flecked contours and majestic steeples. "Besides," the woman murmured, "Scotland Yard would not have such a glorious view."

The _avocat_ shrugged disinterestedly and plopped into one of the veranda chairs, propping his feet up on a small footstool. "I might as well be in Scotland Yard, for all the freedom that Persian and your cranky old caretaker afford me. Why, we have been here nearly a month, and they have not even allowed me to venture outside of the nunnery yet! Apparently we are the only guests allowed to stay on the fourth floor, so there is no one for me to socialize with when you are gone. And you leave me alone everyday to go traipsing about the streets in Arab clothing—pants, no less!—doing goodness knows what for hours on end." M. David sniffed indignantly at the mistreatment he had suffered, his restless fingers toying with a large plant palm at the side of his chair.

Plunging a sponge into the water, Christine twisted it harshly. "You can hardly see the pants under the long _thob_ and jacket. I cannot wear a corset and bustle in this city, when no one else does," she bit back, forcefully scrubbing the soil from her child's hands.

Jean-Paul cried out at the sponge's attack and crossly squirmed from his mother's arms. He attempted a bold escape from the other side of the basin, but the woman quickly snatched him back before he could hoist himself out of the water.

"And I hardly 'traipse about the streets,' as you so kindly put it. Norry or M. Khan always accompany me." She pushed the wriggling child back into the basin and picked up his other hand, this time washing his fingers more gently.

Realizing that one of his arms had been freed, the boy took advantage of his watery position and brought his fist down hard upon the soapy surface, splashing dirty bathwater all over the front of his _Maman_'s plain gray dress.

Christine gasped in shock as rivulets streamed down her face and neck.

The lawyer chuckled at the woman's distress and rose to hand her a towel. She took the cloth, muttered an exasperated "thank you," and patted her face and hair dry.

"Is that the potted plant Jean-Paul found his way into?" the _avocat_ asked, his mind momentarily straying from his wallow in self-pity. He pointed to an overturned orange and red ceramic pot, the green froths of the plant half-buried under the soil spilling from the mouth.

Christine glanced over her shoulder and nodded. She dipped the sponge again and wrung the water onto the sour-faced child's curly black hair. "It is impossible to keep an eye on him every single minute of the day. And since Papi and Norry are across the street at the orphanage, I wasn't able to stop him in time. Of course, Henri, if you chose to put aside this sulking and make yourself useful more often, perhaps the rest of the veranda greenery might be spared."

She gave the man a half-hearted smile to ease the sting of her words, but he did not miss the hard glint in her eyes, so reminiscent of the coldness she had turned upon him in the London cellar. A shudder ran down his spine at the memory. He sighed and nodded in resignation, powerless to fight against the woman's newfound reserves of strength.

"I shall try to do better, Madame," he muttered and stared down upon the bustling streets.

A group of pilgrims—French, by the look of their clothing—was making its way along the Via Dolorosa, following the Stations of the Cross to the Holy Sepulchre. M. David watched as their guide pointed towards the convent, telling the story he had already heard several times in their month at the holy site.

"…the convent is also known as the _Ecce Homo_; for those of you not proficient in Latin, it translates as 'Behold the Man'. The convent is built atop the ruins of Antonia's Fortress, the old Roman stronghold; several Roman roads, arches, and even cisterns have recently been excavated underneath the _Ecce Homo_. They are, unfortunately, not open for public scrutiny…"

The lawyer studied the rapt crowd, searching for a familiar Parisian face or two. He recognized no one, though there were several pretty faces amongst the group.

"…Many men stood before Pilate on this ground to await sentencing, including our Lord and Savior. From here, they were taken to the courtyard just beyond the fortress to either be incarcerated or flogged. The Church of the Flagellation stands there today—the small, twelfth century chapel we observed next to the Franciscan monastery. Now, if you will turn your attention to the left…"

Sighing again, M. David turned away from the devout to watch a raggedy old vendor tail the pilgrims. He held some small object in the air, the glass glinting brightly in the sun's rays.

"Anywhere you go!" the merchant cried in surprisingly smooth, practiced French. He waved the object around as several of the group turned to observe him.

Henri started as the Comtesse immediately appeared at his side, her eyes wildly searching the streets for the source of the voice.

"Take the soil of Jerusalem with you, anywhere you go, only one lira!" the old man again cried, and the _avocat _realized that the object he waved about was a small vial of dirt. He snorted as several men and women queued to purchase the goods, and voiced his humorous thoughts to Christine.

"One only has to bend over, remove a shoe, and pour the collected sand into a pouch—it is not as if dirt is a scarcity here. Why, every time I open my lips, I get a mouthful of it…"

The lawyer's words trailed away as he observed the rigid Comtesse, her thoughts far away from his jest, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She clutched the roof railing so tightly, her knuckles were bloodless mounds atop to back of her hands. Her lips parted slightly and she exhaled, her words barely a whisper, meant more for her own ears than her companion's.

"I was so _sure_, for a moment."

Her lids fell shut and several tears seeped out, clinging prettily to her eyelashes and running the length of her cheeks. Henri's breath caught in his throat at the loveliness before him, silhouetted by the bright light of the Mideastern day…her sun-kissed skin and hair…the allure of her neck…the gentle curve of her corsetless body under the cotton of her dress…

Suddenly, the meaning of her simple words struck him, cutting him to the heart. _Him…_he thought angrily. _She is searching for him, that monster of a man she takes such an interest in. That is the reason she roams the streets everyday. Even why she is bathing her child out here on the roof—to watch for him!_

Impulsively grasping her elbow, he pulled her around to meet his face. Christine's eyes flew open in shock at the abrupt movement and she yelped, immediately yanking her arm back. Her face turned stony as she indignantly rubbed her elbow.

The brief glimpse into her eyes had been enough for M. David, however. He had seen all he needed to, _cared_ to. Longing had overflowed from the clear blue, before cold anger had filtered in—_shameless_ longing—and more significantly, for a man that wasn't himself. Jealousy seized hold, quenching any humor that had fleetingly resided in him.

"He's not coming, you know," he glowered huffily. "The only reason he was aboard that ship to begin with was to discover what I knew about _Fraternité_. He more than likely took a boat back to France when we docked in Jaffa, so he could root around in the Brotherhood's dealings. That would be the most logical step, in my opinion."

"No one has asked for your opinion, Henri," she snapped, her icy glare all but slapping his face for his cruel, hurtful words. Hurtful, in part, because he had voiced her _own _dreadful thoughts. And as day after day passed in which she neither saw nor heard her angel…

A squeal of laughter broke the tense interlude. The Comtesse turned away from the sulking man and back to her son, but all that met her eyes was an empty bath basin. Gasping in surprise, she grabbed a towel and followed the trail of soapy water leading across the terrace and onto the breezeway, next to hers and Jean-Paul's bedrooms. She ran to the corridor in time to see her boy, naked and dripping wet, toddling away from her as fast as his little legs would carry him. Somewhere behind her, M. David's laughter rose up.

"Jean-Paul, stop right where you are!" she sternly commanded.

The boy gave no notice to her order; instead, he shrieked with glee at what seemed to be a most promising game. Impishly peering around the corner, he waited until his _Maman _was almost upon him before turning to run again.

Christine unfolded the towel, expecting to scoop up her child the minute she rounded the corner. He was not there. Searching the stone floor for rapidly drying footprints, the tearful woman at last threw her hands up in exasperation. She had learned how best to handle Raoul de Chagny, Henri David, even Erik, at times. At that minute, though, she believed she would never in her lifetime discover the secret to managing her strong-willed son.

"Little man, _mon petit_," she cajoled wearily, "please come back!"

Another squeal met her ears and she turned towards a sparsely decorated parlour of sorts. There was her naughty little boy, exposed to the elements, water dripping from his dark locks onto the green, threadbare rug. Just beyond him stood the five other occupants of the room: the Persian, Papi, Norry, Sister Helena and Sister Marie, returned from their visit to the orphanage.

The maid's face was a study. The holy sisters awkwardly glanced away from the Comtesse's flushing face, shielding the smiles that played upon their lips. Mssrs. Khan and Nitot, however, made no attempt to hide the deep guffaws that emitted from their persons. They slapped their knees and hooted with laughter as Christine protectively swept over to her giggling little boy and wrapped the towel around him. It was evident to all in the room, judging by the mother's fatigued expression and sodden appearance, that "bath time" had not been a success.

Taking pity on the poor woman, Norry strode across the room and lifted Jean-Paul from her embrace. He chuckled as the small boy wrapped his wet arms about his wrinkled neck and pressed a kiss on his whiskered cheek.

"Don' you worry any about this scamp, girlie," he said, offering the frazzled woman a secretive wink. "Papi can finish up an' give you a bit o' rest. I dare say my grandson has run you ragged this morning." His laughing eyes flicked over her sopping curls and wet dress, and shifted the boy to his side to help the woman up. Beckoning to his daughter to follow, the old caretaker left the room for the mess that awaited them.

"Your son is precious," cooed Sister Marie as she watched the old man's retreating back. "How fortunate that you have such a loving family to help you through this difficult time. It is not any father that would leave everything behind to follow his daughter to a far away place, Madame Garnier."

Christine started at the strange name, then hurriedly caught herself before either woman noticed her surprise. She put a hand to her hair in embarrassment, sure that the curls were drying wildly about her face. "Yes, I am very fortunate," she murmured. Nodding her apologies to the two sisters, she escaped towards her room to freshen her appearance before the noon meal.

"Madame Garnier, a moment please." Nadir Khan strode past the nuns and across the corridor to catch up with the woman. "Did you wish to take a turn about the city, or has your son stolen your strength?" He smiled at the woman, his eyes still glistening with amusement at the boy's antics.

A weary laugh escaped her lips and she smoothed the skirts of her dress. "Do I truly look that horrible, M. Khan? Of course I would like to walk the city with you—perhaps through the Muslim Quarter markets today, then towards the Jaffa Gate? Goodness knows that Jean-Paul has endless amounts of energy, and could do with a chance to expend it. I would really like him to be exhausted by bedtime, for once."

"Your son is certainly strong-willed, Madame." The Persian glanced towards the rooftop terrace as a great splash and a child's squeal rang through the air. "Even Erik would have had a difficult time keeping a grin from cracking that stony façade of his, after the scene just now."

A heartrending expression suffused the woman's features, and the Persian immediately regretted the mention of his friend's name.

"I am afraid that I shall never understand him, M. Khan," she sighed, running a hand through her curls.

The daroga nodded. "You are not the only one to feel that way, Madame—I have spent many years struggling to comprehend Erik's motives. And just when I believe I understand the man, he does something completely unexpected that challenges my notions. For instance, falling in love with a young chorus girl." He smiled warmly at the woman, touching her cheek in a brief show of fatherly affection.

She weakly returned the smile, her cheerless gaze falling to the ground. "Yet when the young chorus girl loves him back, he flees from her. It has been nearly two months since I last spoke with him," she murmured, "and more than a month since I have heard his voice. How can he truly love me, if he turns away from me—"

"You must never doubt his constancy, Christine Daaé," the Persian cut in, bringing her eyes back to his with a commanding voice. "I believe that since we arrived here, not a day has passed in which he has not seen you. Your teacher shall whisper your name when he breathes his last—do not doubt it. If you let go of him, he shall let go of himself."

"Then why does he stay away, Monsieur?" she demanded, anger stirring within her breast.

The man hesitated, thrown off-guard by the sudden fervor of his friend's little singer. He shrugged, at a loss for words. "I have pondered this many times, Madame, but I am still unable to answer this question. Perhaps he is afraid that his bloody past shall put you in harm's way. Maybe he stays away because he fears his black mind when he is with you. Or it could be as simple as not knowing what to do when his love is returned by another."

Nadir sighed and leaned against the breezeway railing, lowering his voice to avoid the attention of curious ears.

"You must understand, Madame de Chagny, that Erik has never been loved by another human being. While you were still an infant at your mother's breast, your angel was a young man who had already suffered a lifetime's worth of pain. You had the tender care of a father and mother that showered you with kisses and taught you how to open your heart to others. Erik's mother gave him a cold mask and then taught him his first and only lesson—that he was alone in the world. The drive for survival taught him everything else: Strike first, or be struck. Become the hunter, not the hunted. Hide your weaknesses, so others cannot destroy you."

Christine inhaled a deep, shuddery breath. "Are you saying he sees his love for me as a weakness?" she whispered.

"Yes. It almost killed him. It almost killed you. He cannot see beyond that."

She shook her head in disbelief. "But Mas Quennell was the monster who strangled me! If it had not been for Erik, I would have been dead in Paris before I even had the chance to flee to London. Surely he knows this!"

"He does not think like that, Madame," Nadir retorted, shaking his head in frustration. "He only sees you, nearly dead with _his_ lasso around _your_ throat. That death device was an extension of his body long before I first made his acquaintance."

As Christine mulled over his words, she studied the man's drooping shoulders and his tired demeanor. It suddenly occurred to her that Nadir Khan had more than likely borne witness to much of Erik's past in Persia…a history that her angel was most reluctant to impart.

_His friend, however, may not be so tight-lipped, _she pondered.

"M. Khan," she began softly, "you have been a friend to my poor, unhappy Erik for many years, whether he has appreciated you or not. You have heard words from his mouth…_seen_ things that I know nothing of. I ask you, _beg_ you, Monsieur—help me _understand_ him as you do. Please, tell me of Erik's life in Persia."

The daroga carefully examined the woman's pleading eyes. Finally he shook his head. "It is not my place to tell another man's story, Madame, for I cannot know his thoughts. If he desired you to know, _he _would tell you—"

"M. Khan," she desperately broke in, "he tried to tell me once, but I would not listen—"

"—however," he continued, his voice rising above the Comtesse's exclamations, "I would be more than willing to share _my_ observations, _my_ story." He paused for a moment in reflection, smiling at the woman's startled face. "Instead of walking towards the Jaffa Gate, I think that a quieter destination would be suitable; there is much to discuss. This afternoon, Madame, I shall teach you to see your angel in a different, more human light."

OOOOO

The nuns had made special concessions to accommodate the odd family, since the youngest daughter's heart was still heavy with sadness from the loss of her husband. The sisters made no mention of their guests' strange ways, however, for it was not their place to question another's chosen method of grieving. And the fact that the Persian guide had kindly doubled the pilgrim house's financial intake did not go unnoticed, either. So the convent's staff, made up almost entirely of Jerusalem natives who had grown up under the protection of Notre Dame de Sion's orphanage, was more than willing to help the family in any way they could. And one such way was serving all meals in the fourth floor parlour, away from the other guests.

Lunch was usually a quiet affair. More often than not, two or three people were exploring the different quarters of the old city, attending one of the many masses, or making themselves useful about the convent grounds. It was a rare occasion when the entire Nitot household was seated around the plain table.

Today, however, all happened to be present. Even Sister Helena, the nun who helped to oversee the orphanage, had joined them for the meal.

The table was spread with various plates of bright red dill tomatoes, cucumbers in a cream sauce, hummus with olive oil, and freshly baked flatbreads. The wide doors and windows had been thrown open to allow the warm, exotic wind to flow into the room and drive out the stale air. Cotton-white curtains billowed through the openings, their quiet snapping providing a background music that rivaled Chopin.

Laughter filled the breezeway as Norry, Papi, and the daroga took turns regaling the others with tales from their visit to the orphanage. Christine held a clean and clothed Jean-Paul in her lap, quietly encouraging him to eat pieces of bread smeared with fig preserves. She glanced up as the maid excitedly described how the children had sang a Palestinian folk song for her, their heads waggling back and forth, toes tapping out the light rhythm. The Comtesse smiled softly at her friend's enthusiasm. It had been many months since she had heard the woman's laughter, seen her eyes glisten with elation. The visit to the orphanage seemed to have done Papi a world of good, and she silently blessed Sister Helena for suggesting it.

Fingertips grazed over her forearm, breaking through her musings.

"You are rather silent, my girl," Henri whispered into her ear, leaning slightly closer than etiquette allowed. "Are you still furious with me for goading you this morning? Really Christine, it was only a bit of a tease." The man chuckled smoothly, letting warm puffs of air tickle her skin.

"I remember the days when you could laugh at yourself—I wish you would do so again, darling. Do you remember the bustle?" His fingers brushed her spine uncomfortably.

The woman eased away from the man and shifted her child to her other knee, shamefully using the boy as a barrier between her and the amorous _avocat._ Her eyes darted around the table to see if anyone had observed the interlude. Thankfully, all seemed engrossed in Papi's story save for the daroga, whose narrowed eyes were trained upon M. David in a glare of warning.

Henri slid his hand away from Christine's back with as much subtlety as possible, and placed it on the table. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to follow the current conversation, willing the pink flush to disappear from her face.

"And what of you, Madame?" the sister inquired. "Shall you attend mass with your father and sister at the orphanage Sunday morning, instead of the going to the Sepulchre?"

The Comtesse nodded emphatically. Worship with the children and sisters would be a breath of fresh air, compared to the stress of attending mass at the Crusader church. Though the stones of the holy place rested atop the very place Christ had been crucified, she had found nothing but disappointment within its smoke-blackened walls. Like a piece of driftwood caught up in a strong current, she was pushed here and there amongst swarms of pilgrims jostling their way towards the many different masses taking place, lighting candles at Calvary, weeping at the Tomb. She was sure she would have been swept under, had it not been for Norry's steady hand guiding her through the crowds. Christine had come away from mass with several bruises on her arms…she could not remember having been injured within a church before.

"Splendid! We shall be delighted to have you in attendance, Madame." Sister Helena clasped her hands together, her wrinkled face alive with joy. "You shall enjoy it very much; Father Jakob from the neighboring Franciscan monastery is currently saying Mass until we receive another priest. Our beloved Father Theodore was taken by God last year." The old woman crossed herself and respectfully lowered her eyes.

"Is not Father Jakob the German who presides over the Church of the Flagellation?" Papi questioned.

The daroga pushed his plate away and leaned back, intent on the conversation.

The nun looked at the maid in surprise. "Why yes, Mlle. Nitot, he is. Have you met him? A wonderful man…so kind and humble. We were truly blessed to receive him in Jerusalem twenty years ago, especially after the…" The old woman frowned slightly, deliberating whether to continue. "After the murder."

"What murder?" M. David chimed in, suddenly taking interest in the nun's story.

The sister hesitated at the man's eagerness. "It is a sad tale, Monsieur, one I do not like to tell. The way they found Father Cyril …" The nun shivered, though the room was warmed from the day's sunlight. "I was in St. Etienne at the time with my ailing mother, so I cannot give you a firsthand account—"

"That is a pity, Sister," the daroga abruptly cut in, a look of unease suffusing his features. He pulled out his watch fob, flipped the lid open and snapped it shut again. Rising from his chair, he bowed slightly to his luncheon companions. "If you will excuse me, my faith calls me to the noon prayer in two minutes. Madame," he inclined to Christine, "if you and Jean-Paul still desire to walk about the city this afternoon, we may leave directly after the _Zuhr_. I believe that the Mt. of Olives would be a fitting destination today."

Sister Helena put a hand to her heart in excitement. "An idea has just struck me! M. Khan, would you be so kind as to take Madame Garnier and little Jean-Paul to meet Fr. Jakob? He would be thrilled! And the Church of the Flagellation is on the way to the Mount, so you need not go out of your way. It really is a fascinating building, and the father could tell you so many stories about it."

Christine nodded eagerly, oblivious to the Persian's deepening grimace. "What a lovely thought, Sister! I would indeed like to meet this Father Jakob." Gathering her sticky-fingered son in her arms, she rose from the table. "If you will excuse me, I must ready myself for the excursion." She nodded her farewells as the men stood, fixing her gaze slightly to the left of M. David's head so she would not have to look at him.

OOOO

The call to prayer sounded just as Christine slipped into her bedroom, and she knew that the others would be leaving the table as well. Conversation was nearly impossible when the muezzins projected their voices from their minaret towers over the city. One by one, each mosque began the _adhan_ and the city fell silent as their earnest calls rose and fell, echoing in every crevice of the building.

The Comtesse scrubbed her child's fingers and face clean, then set him on her bed while she changed out of her simple gray dress. She slid off her light undergarments and stepped into her linen trouser _libas_, hand-woven and dyed in a rich violet and orange.

Next came the white _thob_, the tunic-like dress that billowed about her small frame, all the way to her ankles. The _thob_ was rather thin and barely decent, save for the strategically placed _qabbeh_ panel on the front of the dress. The first time Sister Marie had displayed the clothing for her, Christine had blushed at the thought of wearing it—especially with no corset. The sister had lightly laughed away the woman's fears and pulled out a beautiful _jillayeh_, a richly embroidered green coat that fit nicely about the shoulders and chest.

Christine folded the jacket across her front and tied a colorful silk sash around her waist. Reaching under the elbow-length sleeves of the _jillayeh_, she pulled the white _thob_ material out and let it hang over her wrists.

Lastly, she smoothed back her curly hair and knotted it at the nape of her neck, then draped a gauzy striped _mendil_ over her head and secured it with another scarf around her throat. At first, the Comtesse had been uncomfortable with the layers of material about her face. After several days amongst the throngs of people, however, she was glad for the scarf. She found, to her delight, that it offered immense protection from the sand, which on gusty days whipped about in the air and threatened to coat her mouth and nostrils. The headscarf also allowed her to observe Quarter life from the inside, not as a European foreigner who strutted about the markets during the day and returned to the hotels at night.

The last thing that she desired was to be noticed, just in case _they_, (she still could not bring herself to utter the name '_Fraternité_'), had also found their way to Jerusalem.

As the last strain of the _adhan _tapered off, Christine slipped on her leather shoes and clasped Jean-Paul's hand, patiently leading the toddler to the rooftop terrace. She hovered next to the ledge until the Persian rose from his knees and rolled up his prayer rug.

"Well Madame," he breathed deeply, resting his hands upon his hips, "shall we roam the hills of kings?"

* * *

The pair ambled along the Via Dolorosa amidst a flurry of sound and color. Building after building rose up on either side; many were connected by stone archways that stretched over the expanse of the road. Shopkeepers lining the cobblestone streets sat outside their small stores, exhibiting brightly-colored fabrics, glassware, books, jewelry, and all manner of vegetables and breads. Some smoked waterpipes; the spicy fragrance of the narghile tobacco hung over the streets, lending an exotic richness to the air of Jerusalem.

The streets were not as crowded as they had been earlier in the morning, since many of the Muslim faithful were just now returning from the _Zuhr_. Nevertheless, Nadir Khan walked slightly in front of the Comtesse and Jean-Paul to clear a path through the throngs of people, his back straight and authoritative.

Clutching her child tightly to her, Christine kept her eyes properly lowered to avoid any unwanted attention—only a brazen woman dared to meet men's eyes in the old city markets.

This custom, however, made her search for Erik rather difficult. She _had,_ admittedly, observed him from the waist down when he was not aware of her eyes upon him; in fact, she had become rather proficient at conjuring his image in her mind, especially in recent weeks. Recognizing one _thob_-clad torso among a multitude of _thob_-clad torsos, though, was entirely different.

"Have you seen him yet, Monsieur?" she mumbled, pulling the scarf away from her face as far as she dared.

"What was that?" the Persian tilted his head back, straining to hear her words.

Christine simply shook her head. Conversation was nearly impossible as they moved through the noisy market; only when they neared the Franciscan monastery did the crowds lighten and they were able to hear one another. As they swiftly passed the peaceful, ivy-filled courtyard, the Comtesse remembered her promise to Sister Helena.

"M. Khan, may we take a moment to meet Fr. Jakob? The Church of the Flagellation is just beyond this courtyard, I believe."

To her surprise, the daroga lightly pressed a hand on her back to quickly steer her past the monastery. "Perhaps when we return from the Mount, we can stop. Fr. Jakob may be conducting a mass and would not appreciate the interruption."

Christine halted in puzzlement. "It is a Thursday afternoon. I highly doubt that we would be an intrusion."

The Persian sighed. "Madame, if you must see the Church, let it be on the way back."

She scrutinized the man, his sudden reluctance to enter the chapel not consistent with his normally patient demeanor. Casting him one more curious glance, she walked on.

The two meandered along the city outskirts in silence, each holding one of Jean-Paul's hands as he toddled along between them. Once they reached the openness of the hills and were out of earshot from others, however, the daroga began his tale.

"I feel that I must warn you, Madame, of what I am about to tell you. It is sad, tragic. You may discover several things that you did not want to know about."

Christine gazed ahead, blue eyes blazing with determination. "I am ready to listen, Monsieur."

The Persian nodded.

"When I first met Erik, he was living amongst gypsies in Russia. The khanum had heard of his unparalleled talents for magic, and sent me to fetch him to Tehran. He was young and overconfident in his abilities. Lethal, as well—taking what he wanted, simply because he could." The Persian smiled wryly. "He still has a tendency for insolent thievery, though, thankfully, the years have softened the sharp edge. The Lover of Trapdoors—that is what your angel was called in Persia, Madame."

Christine smiled softly at the name, shaking her head. "How fitting; it does suit him, doesn't it? Rather dashing."

"Yes, it does." The Persian turned to the Comtesse, his face all seriousness. "However, I would not attach romantic notions to his life there, Madame. It was anything but."

The woman blushed at the light scolding and kept walking, letting go of her son's hand to let him run a few feet down the path.

The daroga continued. "He was the Shah-in-Shah's favorite, as well as the khanum's—the shah's mother. I believe they found him refreshing at first; he did not shower them with words of praise as others did, but stood before the throne as an equal. At one time, he nearly had complete control of the royal court. To him, life in Mazenderan palace was a game—human beings were the pawns. He was an advisor, a royal architect, magician, among other things; one of the most powerful men in all of Persia, with the voice of an angel and the mind of a devil.

"Then the killings began. And suddenly, the game lost its luster."

Nadir took a few cautious steps down the steep Ofel Road hill, then held out his hand to assist the woman. As she absently took his hand, he noticed that her face had gone deathly pale.

"Do you wish me to continue, Madame de Chagny?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes, please," she whispered, lifting her chin resolutely. "I want to know."

"Very well," he murmured. "First came the political assassinations, by order of the shah. That is why Erik first came to Jerusalem—to silence a priest, so to speak."

Christine's head came up. "I did not know he had been to Jerusalem before." She considered his words, suddenly remembering the daroga's strange behavior earlier. "The murdered priest at the Church …" she murmured breathlessly, barely side-stepping a loose cobblestone.

The Persian nodded. "The first time was for Father Cyril, but Erik has been here several times since, I believe. _'A most ingenious city, if ever a person desired to go to ground',_ were his exact words."

They reached the bottom of the hill and turned to gaze up at the old city, its walls basking in the bright afternoon sun. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Nadir reigned in Christine's energetic young son and lifted him onto his back. He gestured to the young woman and she started the steep climb up the Mt. of Olives.

"When Erik wrote to me from London and asked that I decide upon a city to relocate your family to, I immediately remembered his words. It was mere coincidence that Sergei Dagaev happened to be hiding in the city, as well; I suppose that the Russian thinks the same way as Erik. Your angel was most relieved to learn he would not have to scour all of Russia in search of the man."

"Please M. Khan, what of the Persian court?" Christine asked anxiously, impatient to know of the life her teacher had kept hidden for so long.

The man dipped his head. "All the while, Erik believed he was in control, and was using the shah and his mother for his whims. He built them a grand palace—a jewel of genius that has yet to be rivaled by any other architect. In the end, however, _he_ was the one that had been cruelly used. They took his brilliance and twisted it for their own diabolical purposes."

Nadir glanced at the woman's form several feet up the path, wishing he could see her reaction to his dismal story. Suddenly, he remembered the childish fingers wrapped around his neck, and held his tongue. As they climbed the rest of the mount, he silently mulled over his memories.

A broken, weeping masked man…a ghost from long ago…

_"There is nothing I can do…I can't turn back the clock and see this terrible thing undone. It's too late ... too late!"_

The bitter words followed his footsteps to the pinnacle of the hill. The Persian swung the babbling child from his back and handed him to his mother. He glanced at her face, taking in her red, puffy eyes and trembling mouth. At last he was able to see what he had not been able to as they walked up the hill—her heart was breaking for her angel.

She took the child in her arms, kissed his forehead, and let him slide to the ground.

"_Mon petit_, go play over there for a bit while _Maman_ and M. Khan talk", Christine said breathlessly, pointing to a small grove of olive trees just feet from where they stood. Collapsing onto the ground, she absently tucked her ankles underneath her _thob_, then turned to face the tree grove and her swift little boy.

The daroga plopped down next to her, wiping the sheen from his brow.

"My son is out of hearing, Monsieur," the Comtesse stated, struggling to keep her voice steady and emotionless. "Please continue."

The man nodded. "The Lady encouraged him to kill for sport; each murder had to be fresh, creative. Men condemned to die—some innocent, others not—would be brought into a courtyard, armed with a long pike and broadsword. Erik had only his lasso. Yet the trapdoor lover was a master of strangulation, and felled his adversary each and every time with a strategic turn of his wrist and a quick snap.

"The khanum was calloused, however, and grew tired of his prowess with the punjab lasso. She began to demand more gruesome, hideous deaths. I shall not go into detail, Madame. If Erik wishes you to know, he will tell you."

Nadir watched as the Comtesse sobbed quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks. One hand angrily swiped her wet eyes; the other clutched her throat as she tried to steady her breathing. He soundly cursed his friend for his cowardice.

_Damn you, Erik…you should have been the one to tell her these things. Instead, you left her in my care without so much as an explanation of who I am, your life in Persia… even without a promise to return…_

At last, she was able to speak. "Erik said that he killed a hundred people, possibly."

"I do not doubt it, Madame. I confess, I did not know it was as many as that, but I was not always at court when Erik was." He patted the Comtesse's hand, at a loss for a way to lessen her pain. The truth of it was, however, that he did not want to ease it. Her tears were oddly comforting; for the first time, he found himself no longer alone in grieving for a murderous, thieving Frenchman.

He waited until her tears slowed, then pressed on.

"Nonetheless, a thief is a king till he is caught. And Erik was caught. The shah soon realized that his court magician was too powerful for his own good. I tried to convince his majesty that Erik would not whisper secrets to Persia's enemies—that he was loyal. The shah merely laughed, saying that the magician was honor-bound to no one but his thieving self. I suppose he was correct. I, on the other-hand, was honor-bound to Erik."

The shah's simpering words clung to his mind like a treacherous fever…

"_I wish to preserve the unique quality of this palace… he shall build for no other king…_ _I shall leave the means of execution in your capable hands, daroga ... but be quite sure that no damage is inflicted upon the skull. It is my wish that his head should be preserved…"_

Nadir shook his head to clear away the cruel voice; he would not tell the Comtesse that particular detail.

"The shah demanded I lure him in, then execute him. I could not do it. As much as Erik had brought the trouble upon his own shoulders, I still held to the belief that he could become a good man. So I secretly helped him to flee Persia. I was sent the Mazenderan prison, and spent five years praying that my sacrifice was not in vain…that my friend was using his brilliance for good instead of evil. Little did I know that he was wiling away his days under an opera house, pining after a young singer."

The man chuckled cynically.

Christine gaped at him, her face pale and eyes glazed with shock.

He laughed again, the sound strangely bitter upon his ears.

"For many years, I have questioned whether I should not have let him die in Persia, if it would not have been more humane. However, I cannot give up hope that he will someday achieve greatness through his genius. He has a great capacity for good…"

"Death is merely an illusion," Christine whispered, unsure of where the words came from.

The Persian inattentively toyed with a small pebble, letting it roll around in the palm of his hand. He angrily tossed it down the slope and watched as it clinked off several rocks, then landed somewhere in the sparse grass. Glancing over to the gnarled olive trees, he watched as the little Comte de Chagny poked at rocks with a stick.

"Do not let him stray too far ahead, here in the hills," he murmured absently. "There are often scorpions under rocks."

Christine nodded, her eyes never leaving her child. They sat in silence, not knowing quite what to say after the tale was finished. Somehow, words did not seem sufficient. She was lost in her own thoughts; the Persian in his. The two gazed across the hills in mute understanding.

"Jean-Paul believes that Erik is his father," she murmured.

Nadir's eyes snapped to her face.

She rushed on. "He calls him "Papa" now, and cries for him at bedtime. You see, Erik was giving him music lessons at night…"

Nadir rose from the ground and strode along the ridge of the hill, his hands clasped behind his back. At length he returned to her, his face unreadable.

A muscle twitched in the Persian's jaw, and Christine began to wonder if she had said something wrong.

"Your child clinging to Erik is understandable," he said quietly. "Children have always been drawn to my friend; perhaps they find him fascinating, mysterious." He lowered himself to the ground again with a heavy sigh.

"I only hope that he handles the boy's affection with care," he murmured.

Christine gave a small, lifeless laugh. "I was drawn to him, as well. I suppose that I was barely a child myself, then…"

Her eyes again filled with tears.

"I did not know I loved him until he set me free," she said quietly, not wanting to break the peace of the hill. "That night below the opera house, I saw his soul for what it truly was." Her lips parted and she exhaled slowly, almost reverently.

"How do I bring him back to me?"

The Persian met her eyes. "You somehow need to show him that love is a strength, not a weakness. He seems to have forgotten this…perhaps he never knew it to begin with."

She said nothing, but Nadir could see the wheels turning within her head. All of a sudden she gasped and clutched the daroga's sleeve.

"M. Khan, I would like to ask a favor of you, but you must speak of it to no one."

"First, you must tell me what the favor is," he said warily.

Christine took a deep breath, her words coming out in a rush. "I want you to purchase a punjab lasso for me."

The Persian gaped at her in disbelief. "Madame de Chagny, are you aware of what a punjab lasso _is_?"

"I have my suspicions."

"One cannot simply _find_ a punjab lasso in the market place."

She was immoveable in her purpose, however—he could see that. Lower lip firmly jutted out, shoulders set with a stubbornness that rivaled Erik's.

_Allah have mercy, what deep waters have I waded in to?_ he cringed. _Erik will already be livid when he finds out the tales that have been told. And now his angel wants a punjab lasso… _

At last he shrugged, relenting to the woman's dogged determination. "I suppose I could find an artisan, or a hide tanner of some sort. With a bit of instruction, perhaps they could fashion one."

The Comtesse's features relaxed into a smile. "Thank you, Monsieur."

He paused for a moment in consideration. "You may address me as 'Nadir', if you so choose. Your Erik prefers simply 'daroga', but—"

" 'Nadir' is fine, M. Khan…'Nadir'..." She tried the name on her tongue, deciding that it suited the man. "And you may address me as 'Christine'. My friends do, though Papi still insists on 'Madame'." The woman laughed softly, thinking of her class-conscious maid.

The daroga chuckled as well. "I have no friends, save for a manservant in Paris and a slightly insane masked man who, until recently, did not even acknowledge me as his friend. Five years in hell for the man..." he shook his head, refusing to let his bitterness seep into him again.

A small hand crept onto his shoulder, and unexpectedly squeezed it. His eyes shot up and he stared at the young woman by his side, her face still flushed from earlier tears.

"Thank you, Nadir," she whispered, her simple words beautifully sincere. "If Erik will not say it, then allow me to." She gazed into the grove of olive trees, watching her son at play. "I refuse to believe that your gift to my angel was in vain. Though it may not be monumental in the world's eyes, he has done a great deal of good for me."

He nodded his thanks, his gaze straying to the golden city upon the hill.

"Jerusalem is beautiful from afar, is it not?" he murmured.

Christine smiled wistfully. "I think that it is also magnificent on the inside of the walls, despite the crowds, the dirty streets, and the religious rivalries. You must search harder to find beauty, that is all."

The daroga glanced at the woman, then patted the hand on his shoulder. "I happen to agree with you, Madame."

* * *

A/N: Again, thanks for reading! Please feel free to review – I listen to all feedback, both good and bad.

A few word meanings:

_du stæm_: my friend (Persian)

_Adhan:_ the call to prayer

_Zuhr:_ noon prayer

_Narghile tobacco:_ a tobacco used in narghiles or waterpipes. Usually contains honey, molasses, or fruits to give it a sweet flavor.

Note: the khanum was originally the little sultana in Leroux. I liked Kay's khanum better (so evil!), so I used her in place of the little sultana.


	23. Fair Game

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for Father Jakob. Although, he is named after Chat beta's grandfather, so I really don't own him, either.

**Side Notes:**

_Thank you to Chat and barefoot for your feedback and plot suggestions. Y'all are incredible!_

_Jerusalem picture album is up on my website. See my profile for my web page address._

_I tried to put up pics of all the sites mentioned so far._

* * *

**Fair Game**

The Church of the Flagellation was not the assignment that most priests would wish for, unless they desired to live a life of humble penitence. At one time, the Byzantine structure had been sturdy and regal, with its peach marble and bronze censers. Now it was a rather small, dreary chapel with crumbling ornamentation and age-blackened stones, which, over the course of 700 years, had served as a stable, weaver's shop, a mosque, even a refuse dump. The sadly neglected sanctuary, however, did not detour centuries' worth of the faithful: they continued to fall on their knees before the closed doors of the church.

Since its acquisition from the Turks in 1838, the Franciscans had struggled to fund the renovation of the near ruins. They had not yet given up on the holy site with such a sordid past, but after the Holy Sepulchre's central dome had to be torn down following the 1867 earthquake, every available cent went to fund the work at the Crusader church.

That was the rule of bureaucratic games in Jerusalem's Christian Quarter—give to the Sepulchre first, then disperse whatever was leftover among the other various religious sites. Any priest that disagreed with this particular distribution of moneys was politely waved away. And while most of the Franciscans would rather have seen resources go to the orphanage, hospitals, and other Christian charities, maintaining their status within the Sepulchre required that they assist in its preservation.

Father Jakob Haar had been one of the few to openly protest the dispensation of money. Before the earthquake, his good works with Notre Dame de Sion's orphanage and his careful smoothing over of Father Cyril's dealings with the Turks had set him on a swift course to a position at the Sepulchre. Once the priest chose to stand against his brothers on the funding matter, however, his prospects were immediately extinguished.

So he had served at the small, dingy Church of the Flagellation for twenty years in quiet humility, giving guidance to the world-weary and help to those who could not help themselves. He was a favorite among the children at the orphanage and a blessing to the sisters of the neighboring convent. And while his small chapel was too remote to be of much interest to the multitudes of foreign pilgrims following the Way of the Cross, the German priest was never in want of company. The holy site was always alive with the comings and goings of local city dwellers, many of whom assisted with the children at the orphanage.

Therefore, it was no surprise to see a Palestinian woman and her small child wander through the heavy wooden doors that afternoon, her face shrouded by a lightweight _mendil_.

"What may I do for you, my child?" Father Jakob asked, his Arabic nearly flawless.

The woman merely shook her head and pulled away the scarf from her face. "I am afraid I only speak a little of that language, Father," she answered, her French words catching him off guard.

The priest stared at the woman with curiosity. Indeed, upon a closer look, he found that she was not Palestinian at all, but European of some sort; her fine blue eyes betrayed her descent. Her skin, however, was not the usual pasty color typical of the northerners that came to Jerusalem, but lightly tanned, leading him to believe that she had been in the city for several weeks.

"May I help you, Madame?" the priest repeated, his French highly accented and guttural.

She smiled gracefully. The man could not help but notice the sadness that played upon her lips and red-rimmed eyes, which told of an afternoon spent in tears.

"You are Father Jakob?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"I am Madame de—" she cleared her throat, "Madame Garnier. And this is my son, Jean-Paul. Sister Helena said that we should meet you."

"Ah! Sister Helena, of course. She is a kind woman, as I am sure you have discovered. You must be one of the convent's guests. And how do you like our city?"

"Very much, Father. It was overwhelming at first, but now it is a welcome reprise to a life that has been rather chaotic." The lady smiled again, the joy in her face not quite reaching her eyes.

Father Jakob turned to the small boy hiding his face on his mother's shoulder. "And what of you, Monsieur? Do you like our fair Jerusalem?"

The child peered up at the man through drooping lids, his thumb firmly ensconced in his mouth. He once again buried his face in his mother's clothing.

Madame Garnier laughed softly. "He enjoys it very much, Father. So much so, that he has run himself to the point of exhaustion today…which isn't necessarily a bad thing," she added quietly.

The priest joined her laughter. "Yes, Jerusalem does tend to overexcite the minds of our young ones. Have you taken him to see the camels at the Mount? Most children enjoy them."

The woman's smiled faltered. "A friend from home suggested that Jean-Paul would like to see the camels," she said, "but we have not found our way there. Perhaps one of these days…"

Father Jakob studied the woman's suddenly crestfallen face. She watched him from under dark lashes, as if she were waiting for him to say something in particular. What it was, he could not guess.

_If she is the eccentric widow that Sister Helena has spoken of, then her recent loss would explain the sadness,_ he thought, wisely deciding not to press the issue.

"Perhaps you would like to hear something of the Church's history, Madame?" he ventured, gesturing to the crumbling structure around him. "It is not much to see, but has a fascinating past."

"I would like that very much, Father." She fairly pounced on his offer, as if he had voiced the very words she had been hoping to hear. Setting her small child upon the ground, she handed him a small paper bag with two candied figs and pointed to the closest pew.

"_Maman_ would like to speak with Father Jakob for a bit. Be a good boy, and we shall see the musicians again when we leave." She watched the child haphazardly toddle towards the dark pew, and sighed in relief.

The priest held out his hand and motioned through the carved wood pews of the chapel. "The Church of the Flagellation has a rather dark history. You have been told that it stands upon the very place where Jesus Christ was lashed, then given his cross to bear?"

His story continued as he took her through the hazy past. The priest told of how the Crusaders had built churches on every holy site in Jerusalem, including the now dilapidated structure they stood in. He described how city dwellers—Christian, Jew, and Muslim alike—possessed a morbid fascination with the tiny church. According to a sinister legend circulating in the 16th century, the dark interior echoed with the crack of whips, by which, in a sordid cell, those who had whipped Jesus were themselves whipped. The holy men were quick to discourage such talk, but it continued, nevertheless.

"Of course, such a thing is nonsense," the priest quickly assured the woman. "The church's doors had been closed for so long, anything could have caused the sounds from within: the settling of stones, wild creatures who had taken residence, even the trees of the courtyard shuddering in the wind."

Mme. Garnier silently nodded along while he spoke. Her face paled as she peered through the dark recesses of the chapel, searching for the specters of the past.

"Father Jakob, Sister Helena mentioned a murder in the church that took place twenty years ago…"

Was it his imagination, or had he heard a slight tremor in her words?

"Yes, a very sad ordeal. Most do not tell of it, but over the years many legends have been woven into facts until they distorted the truth– just like the legend of the cracking whips. Therefore, I tell the story to keep the truth alive."

"I was but a friar in the monastery at the time of Father Cyril's murder. An assassin had been sent by the shah of Persia, the Turks later discovered. Many claimed that the murderer was a sorcerer who slipped through walls and whispered poison into Father Cyril's mind, until the priest no longer knew what he was doing. Others say that he wore a mask to hide the fact that he was the devil himself, come to claim the holy man's soul for his own.

"Unfortunately, all men have tendencies toward evil, even holy men. The truth is that Father Cyril gave into avarice by telling secrets. As a missionary priest, he heard an assortment of sordid confessions in Persia, some of them involving the nuances of the shah's court. In turn, he sold the confessions to the Persian court for money, with little care as to what happened to their victims. When he left the country for Jerusalem, the Ottoman Sultan, in turn, paid him for the secrets of Persian court. A dangerous game to play, you would agree—one that caught up with him, unfortunately.

"His body was found just over there, at the altar."

"Strangled…" the woman murmured, her gaze fixed upon the dark, smooth stones of the high place.

Father Jakob started and his eyes suddenly swept over the woman. "How did you know that?"

Mme. Garnier's cheeks paled at her mistake. "One of the sisters mentioned it," she said smoothly, her conscience pricked at the thought of lying to a priest. She glanced up to see whether the father believed her. He did not. With a heaviness of heart beyond her years, she fell into the half-rotted pew across from the altar and let her head fall back.

The priest studied her at length. "My daughter, if you wish to unburden your soul, you may do so. I can hear you in the confessional."

She shook her head, closing her eyes once more.

"My concern is for another, Father, not myself," she whispered tentatively.

"I will listen to your concern, whatever it may be, child," he steadily replied.

The woman stared at his patient face, determining whether she could trust the man. Something about the open honesty and complete lack of self-absorption struck a chord. Her question tumbled forth.

"Suppose a person had done some horrible things in his past. Years later, he wants to live a new life—a good one. However, the wrongs he has committed still haunt him; so much so, that he is unable to see a way to rise above them."

She looked at him intently.

Father Jakob nodded. "And you would like to know how this man can lay the past to rest?"

"Yes."

The priest peered thoughtfully at the stone altar. "I imagine it would be his responsibility to right those wrongs, in one way or another."

"In what way?"

He smiled kindly at the lady. "It would depend on what the wrong was. If a crime was committed, he might consider turning himself in for absolution, both for himself and those wronged."

The woman's eyes clouded with fear and for a moment, it seemed as though she would leap from the pew and run for the door.

"Was that not the answer you wanted to hear, daughter?" he asked quietly.

"That is not the issue," she replied, shaking her head. "What if the wrongs were not necessarily considered crimes? Say a person who had authority over the law ordered some of them. The others were casually overlooked by the _Sûreté_—" she chided herself softly, "—the _authorities_, because this person has been useful to them. But the acts were still horrible, nonetheless."

"Crime against the basic laws of man, you mean?"

The woman nodded, her anticipation of his answer palpable in the quiet church.

A movement across the blinding light of the doorway caught his attention, and he peered over the girl's shoulder to see who had entered the church. A man stared back at him, his entire person dressed from head to toe in the Mideastern black of winter. The white of his face was a stark contrast to the dark material covering his head; on second glance, however, the priest saw that it was not a pale face, but a mask…

Father Jakob stared down at the top of the woman's head, at last understanding who she was speaking of. _Father Cyril's murderer…the assassin from Persia…this woman knows him…_

_What could he possibly want, after all these years?_

When he looked up again, the man was gone.

Shaken by the ghostly apparition, he forced himself to take several deep breaths and focus on the woman's words. What was it she had just asked?

He patted his forehead, the air in the dark church stiflingly thick. "Madame, if this man you speak of desires to overcome his past, whatever it might be, he must find forgiveness for his crimes. How he is to right each wrong, well, that is for him alone to determine—I cannot answer that."

The priest looked down at the woman's crestfallen face and lifted her chin. "Do not despair, my child. God will help this man through the darkness."

"And if he believes that God has abandoned him?" she whispered.

"Then God will help him, anyway." Father Jakob smiled gently. "I rather think he has already blessed this man an angel."

* * *

­

Fury filled the masked man as he rounded the corner into the Franciscan courtyard, his long black _abaya_ catching the wind behind him. The portion of his face not covered was distorted by rage; if one were to remove the mask and reveal the horror beneath it, it would simply complete the demon's visage.

He strode towards the daroga standing guard at the church's entrance and gripped the man by his throat, shoving him roughly against the stone wall.

Nadir gasped at the suddenness of the attack, his eyes widening with fear at the anger exuded by his friend. His hands immediately flew to his neck as he struggled to pry the iron-like fingers away.

"_Sad-hezaar La'nat_, you fool!" the Persian wheezed. "What in Allah's name—"

"You told her about Persia, didn't you?" the man whispered viciously into the daroga's ear. "About the shah, the killings. That is why she is inside the church—_this_ church, of all places—weeping before a bloody priest! How very clever of you to take her into the hills, where I could not follow."

His fingers tightened as the Persian angrily fought him

"Erik, if you kill me, she will find you with my blood on your hands!"

A spark of remorse flickered in the man's gold eyes. "I have no intention of killing you, daroga," he sighed, his voice breaking with anguish. "_Merde_, Nadir, what were you thinking? My crimes were for me to tell, not you!"

The daroga felt Erik's grip slacken and he wrenched the hand away. Spinning out from the wall, he turned upon the man.

"How dare you threaten me! A man who has been your only friend through these years! It was out of friendship that I told Christine those things."

"I would hate to be your enemy, daroga," the masked man lifelessly rejoined.

Nadir scoffed at his words. "You left her in _my_ care, while _you_ went to search for Sergei Dagaev! Or perhaps you have forgotten our agreement? And as she was under _my_ care, I chose to tell her of Persia. She has a right to know, Erik; if you had remained in Paris instead of following her to London, it would have been different."

"If I remember correctly, Nadir, it was _you_ who encouraged me to go to her in the first place!"

The Persian huffed in frustration, his patience with the man at last exhausted. "And it was the right thing to do. But now you are a part of her life again…and her son's. I won't have you toy with the child's affections as you did with Reza. The slightest bit of attention from you, and Reza talked of nothing else for hours at a time."

Erik's eyes flashed heatedly, the daroga's words hitting their mark. "Is that what this is about? You still despise me for your son's death, and you have decided to exact your revenge?"

Nadir Khan stared at his friend, his expression one of angry disbelief. He closed his jade eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, cooling his boiling blood. When he opened them again, they were filled only with misery.

Erik immediately regretted his cruel remark.

"You can be heartless, _du stæm_. And then you can be the best of men. My Reza worshipped you, so I will forgive your thoughtlessness. You only did for my child what I could not bring myself to do." Nadir pressed a hand to his heart as the pain of his loss throbbed in his chest.

The masked man extended a concerned hand, then slowly let it fall to his side. "I am sorry for the pain I have caused you, daroga," he mumbled remorsefully. "I can imagine why you hate me for what I did."

Nadir turned sad eyes to the street just beyond the courtyard, following the movements of the children darting in and out of the stalls, weaving through the legs of the adults. He remembered his own child's bright eyes, and how they had peacefully closed after Erik mixed a drink that would make him sleep...

The older man sighed, shaking his head wearily. "He was dying an agonizing death, Erik, and you lifted the burden of decision from my shoulders. The father in me will always bless and curse you for what you did. Perhaps some day you will understand this…"

"Khan!"

Both men whirled around at the sound of the loud, enthusiastic voice, startled to find that its owner was less than three feet tall. The child thrust his arms into the air, demanding to be picked up like his _Maman_ had instructed.

"I want up!"

The Persian smiled and swung Jean-Paul into his arms, tousling his curls as the boy settled into his robes.

"Did your mother send you to me, little one?"

The child laughed with delight and tried to stick his dusty fingers in the older man's mouth. Nadir clamped his lips shut.

A slight movement over the Persian's shoulder drew the boy's attention away from the game. As he peered past the _keffiyeh_ clothto the masked person underneath it, his face lit with joy and his hands shot out from the daroga's neck, wildly reaching for the newly discovered man. It was all Nadir could do to avoid the swinging fists of the little boy, so frantic was he to escape to a different set of arms.

"I want go—Now!"

Erik quickly stepped forward and lifted the eager child from his friend's embrace.

"Hello Jean-Paul," he murmured. "Your words have improved since the last time I saw you."

The boy happily clung to his neck and for a moment, the man felt his heart tighten within his chest. As the boy continued to hold him for an uncomfortable length of time, however, he found himself suspended between clutching Christine's little son closer and passing him back to the more experienced Persian. It did not take him long to decide.

"Pa-pa!" the toddler cried enthusiastically.

Erik gaped at him in utter shock, unable to put two coherent words together.

Jean-Paul laughed and swatted a baby palm against his white mask, accidentally knocking the cover slightly astray. Erik cursed silently and settled it back into place, relieved that his face had not been exposed to the boy's curious eyes. He held Jean-Paul and his prying fingers as far from his person as possible. The daroga's low chuckle burned his ears.

"Did you teach him to say that?" Erik whispered accusatorily. "Did Christine?"

Nadir held up his hands in innocence. "I can assure you, _du stæm_, that neither I nor the boy's mother taught him such depravity! I only know that he began to call you by your present title not long after you left London."

Erik glared at him in disbelief. "That cannot be possible. Christine would have corrected his mistake by now! Why the devil would she—"

The Persian motioned for him to lower his voice. "If you do not speak more quietly, she will be able to explain her motives face to face." He paused for a moment in thought, then smiled. "I am inclined, however, to believe that that is exactly what should be done."

Erik stared at the boy in his arms, studying his features with trepidation. Black, wispy hair…delicate nose and forehead…clear blue eyes brimming with innocence, just as his mother's once had.

_Just as hers had done, before I destroyed the innocence in them._

A low, serious voice broke into his ruminations. "You need to speak with her, Erik—it is time. This woman and her son care for you—take heed, or you shall lose them."

The masked man pressed his unmarred cheek to the soft curls on the boy's forehead, inhaling the childlike smell of powder mingled with perspiration from an afternoon of play. _This child should have been mine,_ he wistfully pondered, soaking up the indefinable feel of the boy for as long as possible. He sighed heavily and passed Jean-Paul back to the arms of his sober friend, resisting the toddler's protests.

"One cannot lose something one never had, Nadir," the man replied lifelessly. "They deserve more than I can give them."

Nadir stared at the man in disappointment, hovering on disgust. "You are right," he succinctly replied. "They deserve better."

* * *

Christine lay awake in her bed, though the hour was well past midnight. Her mind and body were clenched tightly in fear as she listened to the curtains lightly flapping in the night air, waiting for the sound to come again. The rustle of a cloak, quiet footsteps upon the stone floor…

_Someone is watching me._

She could feel the eyes upon her, just over her shoulder. What would they do if they knew she was awake? Fisting her fingers underneath the light blanket, she concentrated on steadying her breathing, giving the appearance that she was in the midst of a deep sleep.

_The porcelain pitcher, next to the bed._

If she could force herself to spring forward, grasp its handle, and swing it over the head of whoever was standing at her back…

Without pausing for further reflection, she dove for the empty pitcher. She only managed to pick it up, however, before a vice-like grip closed over her wrist. Another strong arm came around her waist from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth. She screamed into the cold fingers, her cries hopelessly muffled as she wildly fought for freedom. Seized with panic, she waited for the inevitable rope to tighten around her neck…

"Angel, don't be frightened," the man whispered fiercely into her ear, his arm tightening around her body. "I did not know that you were awake, or I would have—"

Nightmares of Mas Quennell's brutal lasso were swept away by the beautiful voice.

Christine sobbed in relief and went limp, the porcelain falling from her hand into the folds of the bedding. Twisting around in his embrace, she flung her arms about her angel's neck and buried her face in the rough material of his _abaya_. He started in surprise. Slowly, cautiously, his arms wrapped around her shoulders; she could feel his heart pounding within his chest.

"You have come back to me," the woman murmured and fell against his thin frame, sinking into the peaceful fold of her angel's wings. Smiling, she pressed her cheek to his, content in the knowledge that at that very moment, Erik was warm and alive…not some specter that would vanish when she woke.

The moment was over too soon; she reluctantly let his warmth pull away from her. Erik strode over to the window and pushed back the white curtain, glancing along the breezeway. Pulling the pane closed, he leaned against the glass for a minute to compose himself. Then he turned to face his glowing protégé, a careful mask of indifference placed upon his features.

"Light the lamp, if you will."

Christine silently rose from the bed and turned to the small table at her side. Striking a match, she lifted the glass globe from the oil lamp and touched the flame to the wick. The light flared, and she quickly adjusted it to a low flicker. She turned back to her angel, her curiosity brimming.

He stood before her, his hands clasped behind his back. The dim light cast dark contrasts across his face, so it was difficult to tell where the shadows ended and his black mask began. He peered about the small room, grimacing at the cracked walls and ancient cast-iron stove. There was no furniture, save for a scratched set of drawers and a single wooden bed; even those two pieces barely fit in the scant space of the bedroom. A cursory glance into the adjoining room revealed a tiny bathroom with a metal tub and chamber pot. He shook his head.

"Nadir could have found something a bit more accommodating," he grumbled.

"Henri said the same thing."

The man's face grew dark and she covered the smile that played upon her lips.

"You look very well, despite fending off daily attacks from that brainless _avocat_," Erik muttered cynically. "I could effectively put an end to that problem without killing the boy, if you would allow me."

The young woman smiled at her teacher's kind offer. "Thank you, Erik, but I'd rather Henri remain intact. His complaints would only increase ten-fold if you were to …injure him."

Shrugging his shoulders, he smirked at Christine's words. "All the same, you need only ask…"

She shook her head. "Anyway, the convent is fine—whatever it lacks in convenience, it makes up for in atmosphere. And the sisters really are very generous…"

Christine watched as the man inattentively leaned against the bedpost, his intelligent eyes still peering about the dimly-lit room.

"Erik," she whispered nervously, "did you have a specific purpose for coming here, or is this merely a social visit?"

Starting as if she had suggested some shocking thing, he strode forward, took her wrist, and stood her in the center of the shabby area rug.

"As a matter of fact, I did," he replied brusquely. "Sing something for me. Not too loudly—I'd rather not wake that prying maid of yours."

"Sing?" Christine stared at him incredulously. "Erik, it is the middle of the—" A smile slowly spread across her face as she realized what she had been about to declare. _Of course it is the middle of the night,_ she mused. _When else would my teacher come to me, asking for my song?_

"What would please you, Angel?" she quipped, the laughter in her eyes veiled by the darkness of the hour.

He waved his hand about impatiently. "Nothing too strenuous. Your voice will be too weak for anything of consequence. I only ask, because I have trouble hearing you in my head when I write." He cleared his throat and turned away from her. "You see, I no longer know what your voice sounds like after…"

"After the attack?" Christine offered, her heart flipping as she watched her teacher's back stiffen.

"Yes, after the attack," he replied coolly, the agitation in his voice barely perceptible.

The slight waver, however, was enough to let Christine know that her angel was still greatly shaken by the ordeal. She remembered Nadir's words to her earlier that day… _He only sees you, nearly dead with his lasso around your throat_. With a soft sigh, she crossed the room to her teacher's side. Placing a hand delicately between his protruding shoulder blades, she waited until the muscles relaxed to her touch.

"Erik, what would you like me to sing?" she again asked quietly.

He deliberated for a moment. "A Fauré, I think. Mid-range, not terribly difficult—nothing above a D for now."

Christine nodded and took a few steps back, her knees quaking at the thought of once more singing under her teacher's scrutinizing gaze. Painfully aware of the fact that she hadn't properly sang in four years, she lifted her chin and tried not to look as ridiculous as she felt. She bit the tip of her tongue to wet her dry mouth.

The first soft strains spun from her throat easily enough, and as she grew more confident, she granted the notes a bit more freedom. On the first simple leap from an E to a high C, however, her voice broke horribly and her hand flew to her throat in embarrassment. She glanced at her teacher in dread, fearful of his reaction to her pathetic instrument.

Erik gave no sign of displeasure—none that she could ascertain in the low light, anyway. He simply circled her still form, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with his thin hands, then motioned for her to start again.

"Begin with '_les_ _lévres effleurent_,' a half-step lower this time."

"_Down here, lips fade_

_And leave nothing of their velvet,_

_I dream of kisses that last forever!_

_Down here, all men weep_

_For their friendships or their loves…"_

The singer moved through the phrase again, her confidence once again rising as the notes sounded normal upon her ears. As she neared the leap, though, her surety began to wane. Erik must have sensed her fear as well, for his hand suddenly came around her waist and pressed against the muscles under her rib cage.

"Christine, your shoulders are rising! You should be singing from here, not from your chest—Keep going—did I tell you to stop?" he commanded.

With each minor correction, her voice became clearer and richer. When the last phrase of the songs sustained into nothing, the woman relaxed her posture and turned to the masked man, her entire being giddy from the exhilarating music. A silly grin spread across her face as she took in the serious demeanor of her teacher.

"You really have nothing to grin about, Madame," Erik said sharply. "You barely have an upper range left, your tone is rough, your pitch is off, and your breathing is atrocious. It is obvious that your voice has been neglected, even before the required respite after your attack. And you have no muscle strength whatsoever, which leads me to believe that you haven't sang at all since you left the opera."

As he spoke, his voice grew harsher and more irritated.

"When you told me that your song had left you, I thought you were speaking figuratively. Good God, have you really not sung since your performance in _Don Juan Triumphant!_? Years of training, simply thrown out the window—what the devil are you laughing at?"

The woman's grin widened to ridiculous proportions. If she did not love him so well, she might have been crushed by his criticism. Stepping forward, she placed a finger lightly upon her maestro's lips to silence his tirade.

"I smile because I have missed my Angel of Music…and my friend," she added softly. "Please tell me that you have managed to find something worth salvaging in my voice."

The man sighed deeply. "The rasp seems to be fading. I must say that your throat is in better condition than I dared to hope for; it appears to be healing very well. Perhaps with time and careful practice, you might regain some of what you lost."

"It is healing because I have had no one to argue with these past two months," she laughed, the corners of her mouth dimpling. "Your absence has done a world of good for my poor vocal chords."

Erik's gold eyes flared with amusement. "Insolent child! You dare to abuse me, when I only offer you the very best of guidance?" He lightly smoothed the dimple with his thumb.

"I am hardly a child, Erik," the woman teased.

And then her smile faded as the man's gaze abruptly sobered, fairly crackling in its intensity.

"No," he murmured, "you are not a child, are you Christine?"

Something in the way his beautiful voice whispered her name was disconcerting. Suddenly, she was painfully aware of the tension in the air… the lateness of the hour…weeks with only the ghost of his touch… the firm bed, just feet behind her…

The Comtesse felt her ears burn in embarrassment as he fixed his eyes upon her lips, his hard gaze only straying from their softness to briefly flick over her body. Her angel must have seen something of her distress, for his brow furrowed and he broke the concentrated stare, his hand dropping to his side. Moving towards the bed, he was careful to sidestep her trembling frame as he lifted the light blanket from the top.

"The night air makes you shiver," he said hoarsely, and dropped the blanket over her shoulders. One long finger lightly grazed her arm and she had to clasp her hands together to keep from reaching out and grasping it. She murmured a word of thanks and pulled the quilt about her body, her eyes following the silhouette that moved past her. As he retreated to a chair in the far corner of the room, she couldn't help but notice that he put as much distance between himself and her as possible.

Erik brooded for a good several minutes, his thin fingers thoughtfully steepled under his chin. While the lack of words did not seem to bother him, Christine felt anything but comfortable in the heavy, suffocating silence. At last, she could bear the weight no longer.

"Erik, do you have anything else you would like to discuss with me? Another song, or a ballet, perhaps? If not, I wish to return to bed. My attention will be of no use to you, if you plan to remain silent for the rest of the night."

Her cynical words brought the masked man out of his trance and his eyes snapped to hers.

"Are you aware that your son believes I am his 'Papa'?" he asked coolly, his face betraying no emotion.

The young mother nodded, her lips trembling slightly at the abruptness of his question.

"And you have chosen not to correct him?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders indifferently, struggling to hide her disappointment at his words. This was not the reaction from him she had hoped for.

"Christine, you must do something about your son's misconceptions."

She glanced towards the floor sheepishly, her eyes hidden by dark lashes. "Must something be done about it?"

Erik stared at her incredulously. "Is there any doubt? I am not his father—Raoul de Chagny is! I had no part in your son's creation, and you cannot possibly entertain the idea of letting him believe otherwise."

Christine straightened her spine indignantly. "It really wasn't that unreasonable of an idea, Erik. Perhaps you may have forgotten in your long absence, but my son's father is dead. Jean-Paul will have little to no memory of him—he is too young. But he does have memories of _you_! Maybe it was foolish of me to do so, but I wanted him to hold on to the thought of a 'Papa' a little longer."

Her breath caught and she swallowed against the lump in her throat.

"I suppose _I_ wanted to hold on to the thought of a 'Papa' for my son, as well," she added quietly.

Her teacher leapt from his chair and paced about the room like a caged animal waiting for his prison door to slide open. When freedom did not present itself, however, he at last turned to the woman silently observing him.

"Christine, I am the last person you should want as a father for Jean-Paul," he said bluntly. "I am a selfish, jealous creature by habit and a murderer many times over, as Nadir so kindly explained to you today. And while I have more patience for children than I do for adults, it is still very little."

He intently studied his hands, willing his voice to remain steady.

"Why you would want me to have anything to do with your son after what you discovered of my past, I cannot say. Perhaps you still hold on to some blissful idea of saving me, when I knowingly threw away redemption long ago. I have nothing to offer him…not even a face…"

Christine gently shook her head, her angel's self-deprecation nothing new to her ears. "I am well aware of your so-called flaws, Erik, and I'm sure Jean-Paul will soon be acquainted with them, before long. That is," she added, "if you choose to be a part of his life."

The Comtesse watched bemusedly as shock suffused his features. Apparently, the last thing her angel had expected her to do was make light of his woes.

_If he had said these things before the London attack, perhaps I would have burst into tears,_ she pondered. _However, life is too short to be spent crying over the things we cannot change, when there is the future to look forward to. _

She leveled her gaze at the confused man, her demeanor straightforward and no-nonsense. "I have heard all of your objections, Erik. But the fact still remains that you care about my son—that is why you are trying to detach yourself from him. That is why you have detached yourself from _me_, as well…but that is beside the point."

"Christine, this is hardly—" he cajoled, but she held up her hand.

'Now, please tell me what you _can_ offer my son." She held her breath, her heart pounding as she waited for his response.

He sighed resignedly, the urge to fight the matter giving way to his desire for her happiness. "I can try to see him twice a month at a time and place of my choosing, preferably away from the convent. I want as few people as possible to know I am here in Jerusalem."

He looked at her pointedly.

"And I will only do this on the condition that you tell him I am not his father."

Christine began to protest, but he quickly silenced her.

"This is a fair compromise, Madame. The day may come when my past in Persia or Paris returns to claim me, and I am forced to leave him behind. I'll not have him believe his own father deserted him."

The mother nodded her acceptance. "Very well. I shall tell Jean-Paul the truth."

_In good time,_ she silently added, watching as her angel strode towards the door. She smiled ironically at the man, not quite daring to give voice to her afterthoughts. If she had her way, the entire argument would be moot before long.

"Well, now that this mess is somewhat cleared, I will say goodnight." He nodded to the woman and quickly escaped through the door.

As she watched Erik slip into the night, it struck her that he had not brought up the one thing she had wished him to. Dashing into the breezeway, she followed him to the rooftop terrace and grasped the corners of his black _thob_, just as he was about to swing over the convent edge.

Thrown off balance, the man's arms flailed about and he was forced to leap down from the ledge. He rounded on the woman, his face furrowing in anger.

"Have you lost your mind, Christine? You nearly sent me flying over the side of the building!"

"You forgot to ask about Persia," she whispered breathlessly, her fingers clinging to the dark wool of his _abaya_, slowly drawing him closer.

He tried to pry her hands from his clothing. "I have told you time and again, I no longer speak of Persia. If you have any questions, go to your Persian—he seems more than willing to feed your appetite for morbidity."

She searched his eyes, trying to hide her amusement at his irrational jealousy. "You are not in the least bit curious to know my thoughts?" His young protégé smiled and held fast to his cloak, refusing him the quick escape that he desired.

The masked man sighed, his hands dropping to his sides. "Christine, you reacted exactly as I expected. You listened the daroga's tale, packaged in pretty ribbons to appease your delicate sensitivities. Afterwards, you went to the first church you could find, cried at the confessional, and poured out your heart to the priest—"

Erik's words were immediately silenced as his angel's hands pulled his face down and her lips gently brushed the corner of his mouth, just under his mask. His entire being went rigid under the soft burn of her body, the shock of her tauntingly light caress driving all common sense from his mind. As her lips played upon his, fire slowly consumed him until he felt the edge of pain. The flames licking higher, he threaded his fingers in her dark tangles of hair and tried to press his mouth to hers.

Before the fire could be quelled, Christine abruptly pulled away. Her angel frowned in protest and lowered his head again, but she neatly dodged his advance. Laying a palm on his chest, she drew his ear to her lips.

"Are you sorry for the murders, Erik?" she murmured.

The man swallowed, his head pounding from the light scent of lavender. "I am sorry they have hurt you, my angel."

Her demeanor swiftly became icy, causing her spine to chill under his fingertips. _Surely he must feel remorse for what he has done,_ she thought incredulously. Sympathy and fury warred within her, each struggling for its rightful place in her heart. This time, fury won.

"Since you will not ask, I shall tell you what I have learned of your experiences in Persia," she whispered, her words warm and lethal. "You have lived a difficult, tragic life—that is true—I wept when I heard of it. However, you also enjoyed playing games with lives." She turned frosty blue eyes upon the man, their depths sharp and calculating. "You see people as pieces you can move across a board, cornering the pawns one by one, until you have captured the queen. Well, I refuse to be one of your game pieces, Erik."

His face blanched in bewilderment. "Christine, I am not playing games with you," he stated, her words stirring a baffling resentment within him that could find no familiar outlet. The barely visible bruises that still dwelled upon her neck caught his eyes, the light scarring a permanent reminder of what had nearly been destroyed.

Forcing his anger to cool, he spoke again, his timber smooth and low. "The last thing I want is to see you injured again."

She shook her head, her eyes sparking defiantly. "You _are_ playing a game, Erik, though many of your games have become so real, you cannot recognize them for what they are. What else could tonight be? You hide from me for two months, only to secretly follow me about the city every day. On a whim, you manifest like a ghost in my bedroom and demand that I sing for you, all the time fiddling precariously with your own version of seduction."

She lightly traced a finger along the edge of his mask, feeling his heart beat madly under her palm. "You will find, however, that I have become a worthy match since our days at the opera. I believe I know my opponent much better than I did then."

The masked man wrenched away from his angel's intoxicating embrace and glared at her heatedly, the molten gold mingling with his unabashed obsession for her.

"You wish to join me in a game, Christine?" he snarled, his lips curling mockingly. "So be it! You shall be the one to lose, in the end. I have a great deal more experience than you in this type of diversion, my angel, and I highly doubt that you shall see me fall."

And with those parting words, he swept an arm about her waist, forcefully pressing his mouth to hers. She was bruised by his sudden intensity, thrown off-kilter as his cold fingers dug into the small of her back.

One brief, crushing kiss…he branded her with the heat of it, leaving a bold warning upon her lips.

And then he released her, the kiss over before it began. All she could think to do was breathe…breathe, and watch his retreating form as he fled into the night.

An artful smile played upon her tingling lips.

"I would rather _not_ see you lose, Erik," she murmured into the darkness. "Because if you win this game of ours, we both shall win."

Her first move had been to win Erik for her son. She already knew what her second move would be—to wait. Wait until Nadir placed the punjab lasso in her hands. And then her strategy would truly begin.

_

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A/N: Again, thanks for reading and writing such motivating reviews! I listen to all feedback, both good and bad._


	24. Pupil and Teacher

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except that sassy new punjab with the rockin' good looks!

**Side Notes:**

_Thank you to Adison for your wonderful beta skills! You are a fabulous editor, my dear. Chat, you've used up your vacation time :) Barefoot, don't work too hard – you are in mah heart._

_Phantomy cookies, my mother sends you her love :) _

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. This was a tough chapter to write for some reason, but I got through it on time because of your motivating words! _

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Pupil and Teacher **

"I believe we have a thief in our convent, Madame Garnier."

Christine nearly dropped the comb that she was tugging through Jean-Paul's snarled black curls. "Why do you say that, Sister? Has anything gone missing?" she questioned, raising her voice over the child's tearful protests.

Sister Helena gave the woman a knowing smile, as children's tears were nothing new to her.

"Nothing of consequence has been taken; several brass candelabras from a closet next to the sanctuary, and a handful of candles. However, I advise you to keep your door locked at night." The old nun lifted her afternoon cup of tea to her lips and looked thoughtfully across the rooftops of the old city. "I almost think that we have somebody living below the convent, in the ruins. We shall have to chain the chapel door that leads to them, so they will not be able slip into the building again."

"I am sorry, Sister—I know you have explained this already, but could you tell me a bit more about the Roman ruins underneath the convent?" Christine asked shakily.

The sister's face brightened. "Of course, Madame Garnier. So many fascinating things lie under this very building, as well as under the orphanage."

_Including a thieving masked man, I am guessing,_ the young woman silently mused, reproaching herself for not realizing it sooner. Almost everyday, she had madly searched the streets of Jerusalem, only to find that the most likely place for Erik to be residing was under the convent itself. Only yesterday morning, Sister Helena had imparted that underneath most of the old city ran a network of Roman streets, pillars, arches; some of it had already been excavated, including the portions under the Ecce Homo pilgrim house.

_The Phantom of the Convent…_She quietly snickered, knowing how Erik would rage if she dared to suggest such a thing. A vision of frightened nuns scurrying down a hallway followed by maniacal laughter sneaked its way into her mind. The image was irrepressible—a lighthearted giggle flew from her mouth before she had the chance to stifle it.

Sister Helena gave her a confused look, and went on. "I have only been below the building once, when we tapped into the water source underneath the convent. We had to cut through the old plaza's thick paving stones that had been used to vault over the cistern. You see, the water source used to be part of a canal that led to the Jewish temple. When the Romans conquered Jerusalem, they destroyed the canal and built a moat around the Fortress Antonia. Later, Hadrian covered the moat to craft the cistern when he was creating his new glorious city—Aelia Capitolina. The old city plaza, the Lithostratos, is what lies under the convent; perhaps, before your stay in the Ecce Homo is over, one of the sisters can take you below to see it." The nun smiled at the young mother. "The ruins are well worth the visit."

Christine nodded absently, her eyes anxiously searching the markets below for Nadir. Dark clouds had been gathering upon the horizon for a good half hour now, crowding out the late afternoon sun. The storm would be a welcome relief to the apparently uncommon, sweltering days that had plagued Jerusalem the past two weeks. The sun had pounded upon the dry land since that first warm night she and Erik had agreed upon their game, and had not relented since.

_Perhaps we shall see rain this evening,_ Christine reflected, wishing for the cool reprieve.

She hoped that Nadir would return before the storm broke. Yesterday evening at dinner, he had quietly told her that the item she had requested was finished, and would she like him to fetch it for her the next day? Her insides flipping anxiously, she had nodded her assent. And then he had carefully dropped a note in her hand, murmuring something about its having been placed in his care earlier that morning, during the _adhan._

The Comtesse had quickly excused herself from the table, slipping away from the curious eyes of Papi and Henri. Sliding her finger under the wax seal, she consumed the splotchy red words, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

_My Dear Madame,_

_So, you have chosen to remain silent in regard to our agreed-upon game? I must admit that I am rather disappointed in your course of action (or lack thereof), and can only surmise that you intend to wait until my vigilance has weakened. However, I fear that this shall never be the case, my dear lady. My fortitude is tremendous in this respect, as I am more than willing to hold my guard for years, if necessary. Therefore, if you intend to face me in this match, you must devise a new plan._

_In regard to your small handbag, which was stolen from your person in the market today. I was greatly troubled by this occurrence; not so much by the thievery itself, but by the purchase you were making at the time. Really Christine, that red trinket did not flatter your wrist at all. You would have done better to choose the blue bracelets. Blue suits you better than red. _

_If you look to the set of drawers in your room, Madame, you shall find your handbag. Please put your money to better use in the future, and accept my gesture of goodwill._

_I remain your Teacher in all aspects,_

_E_

Christine had been mildly irritated by the man's "gesture of goodwill". She had been forced to ask Nadir to purchase the items she couldn't buy, because of the misplacement of her coins. The Persian's eyes had glistened with obvious curiosity when she casually placed in his hands the red bracelet, the gold coins _smadeh_ that Palestinian women wore for special occasions, a thin chain, and a very plain, unadorned gold ring…

"This ring is too big for your fingers," the Persian had stated absentmindedly as he haggled with the shop owner for an agreeable price.

"I know," Christine had softly replied, careful not to meet his astonished eyes.

When she had retrieved her handbag from the set of drawers and opened it, she found four silver and blue bracelets adorned with opalescent shell engravings. They were exquisite. And they would be lovely upon her wrist—much prettier than the red bracelet. Her angel knew very well that she had a weakness for beautiful, frivolous things.

She cursed him silently and slid her hands through the shiny circles.

It was plain to the young woman that the theft of her bag had merely been one attempt of many (others included several more notes, bodiless voices, and the gift of a thorny rose with the sentiment "I thought of you" attached) made by Erik to reinforce their former relationship: he, the teacher and she, the pupil. She could, in a way, understand his desire for this again. After all, he had been comfortable with this arrangement. He had had control over her—choosing what she wore, how she sang, who she associated with—and she had not questioned it. One did not challenge a beloved maestro.

The fact _was_, however, that they had long ago outgrown this comfortable, detached, understanding. Teacher and protégé had struck a match, played with fire, and felt their souls burn as the flames shed light on frightful elements of love they had never before witnessed. And now they were caught in limbo—they could never be as they once _were_, but were afraid to discover what they _could_ be.

_It is time to remedy that,_ Christine had vowed, stringing the thin chain through the gold ring and slipping it under her _jillayeh._ _My angel would rather retreat into the darkness. I desire to move further into the light. Somehow, we must find a way to meet halfway._

Jean-Paul loosed another howl of protest as his mother inattentively tugged at his hair with the comb.

"I want down, _Maman_!" the boy cried, casting a glare of righteous anger upon her.

"_S'il vous plait_, Jean-Paul."

"_S'il-plait_."

"That is good enough, _mon petit_." Christine sighed and released the indignant child. He slid down from her lap; she swore he strutted away from her, if it was possible for a toddler to strut. _Gracious, if he is given the chance to perfect this grand air of his, he shall one day be worse than Erik._ She shook her head, the mere thought sending a shiver of dread up her spine. How would she ever handle him? And yet she was determined to see her plan through, resigned to the fact that she was a glutton for punishment.

Sister Helena laughed airily as the child scooped up his plush white horse and toddled over to her open arms.

"And who is this fine horse, Monsieur?"

The boy grinned and plopped the animal in her lap. "Papa's Ceez horse!"

His mother reddened. "The horse is named 'César'."

"Your little boy must miss your husband a great deal," the sister commented sadly. "He _does_ seem to be doing very well, so soon after..."

"Yes," Christine quickly replied, her blush spreading to her ears and neck. "Thank you for offering to care for him this evening, Sister. I cannot express how grateful I am to you for your kindness. Papi and Norry should return from the orphanage before too long, so if my little man begins to overwhelm you, one of them would be more than willing to take him. Henri, unfortunately has taken ill today." She did not mention that the avocat's symptoms strangely resembled those of one who had ingested a poisonous substance.

The old woman patted the worn mother's hand. "You look as though you could use an evening of quiet rest and reflection, my dear. Do not be concerned for your child's welfare—I am more than happy to help."

The Comtesse could only nod, the guilt from her deception weighing heavily upon her conscience; wandering through forbidden Roman ruins did not exactly constitute "rest and reflection." Thanking the nun again and kissing her distracted child's forehead, she made her way to her bedroom to prepare for the difficult task that lay ahead.

_

* * *

How does one lay the past to rest, when there are still so many unanswered questions? _

Christine gazed down at the elaborate brooch she had carried with her from Paris—the last gift Raoul had given her, for their third wedding anniversary. Tripping the tiny latch, she opened the lid to reveal the two portraits—her father's and Raoul's—those that had been most dear to her, that she had loved with a childlike, unquestioning devotion. And they had loved her back, the girl that had been Christine Daaé. Two men: unselfish in their instruction and patient with her whims.

_Christine Daaé, however, does not exist anymore, _the woman reflected_. Her name was erased when death knocked at her door and drove away the child. I am no longer that frightened little girl. _

The Comtesse Christine de Chagny did not seem to suit her either. The name "Chagny" had been left behind in Paris, though her son carried it yet. But she was not a Chagny…she truly wondered if she had ever been one. Raoul had loved his family legacy, and had upheld its honor as best as he could, despite the condemnation he had quietly suffered for his rather unconventional choice of a bride. She had been his wife but never a part of his family; and she had certainly not felt like a Comtesse. Therefore, she had left the name "Chagny" behind when she said her goodbyes to Raoul and opened her arms to her angel.

And now Erik…

_What shall my name be?_ she pondered, absently running her fingertips over the delicate gilding of the brooch. _Erik does not have a last name…he does not seem to need one. Could I live without a name, as he? Simply "Christine"…no labels of ownership, no affiliations or responsibility to anyone but myself. _

_It would be impossible for me to keep the name "Chagny" once I am his. Relinquishing my title will make it more difficult to protect my son's estate…but what is material wealth to a boy? Wouldn't he rather have a father? _

Christine studied Raoul's handsome, guileless face…blue teasing eyes, full mouth that would break into a wide grin with the slightest encouragement.

Poor Raoul. He had been cruelly cheated out of the long life he should have had. Wrenched away from his wife, his baby son, without so much as the comfort of a lifetime's worth of memories.

How proud he had been the day Jean-Paul was born. Christine had not been aware of much that night; hours and hours of difficult labor had driven her to utter exhaustion. Through her haze of pain, however, a single, powerful vision caught her…Raoul hovering above her, his handsome face deeply etched with lines of worry, eyes full of love for his wife. Brushing damp hair from her eyes, he had cradled their red, wriggling son in his arms for her to see, because she had been too weak to hold the babe herself.

"_Christine, look at the magnificent son we have made together. I am so thankful for you, Little Lotte, my wife…"_

Tears ran down the woman's cheeks; she had not realized she had been crying. It was not fair that Raoul—a man who had given her everything and asked for nothing—should have lost the two things most dear to him. It was tragic that when he was alive, she had not been able to love him completely.

_Always holding back…never fully letting go…_

A sob broke in her throat. "Raoul, you deserved more than I gave to you. You should have had a wife that loved you with her entire being, not half of a heart. And yet you never blamed me, or hated me for it…somehow, you understood."

A shuddery breath escaped from her mouth, cooling the salty tears upon her lips. "It is not often that a person is given the opportunity to mend the broken spirits of the past, but I have been given just that, Raoul—a second chance. This time, I can love somebody completely without guilt weighing upon my shoulders. I will never again have to think of my angel and ask 'what if I had stayed?'"

Christine snapped the brooch shut. "You were the correct choice, then, and the best husband for the scared little girl that I was. I am no longer that girl, though—I have lost too much, and loved too deeply. And now the woman must face the truths she could not as a child." Rising from the edge of her bed, she moved to the tattered set of drawers that held her other cherished mementos.

A strong gust of wind blew through the room, causing the white curtains to snap wildly. The fresh smell of rain permeated the staleness of the room, driving out the hot, stuffy air and replacing it with a pleasant coolness. She quickly crossed the room to the windows. Layers of black clouds pillared up towards the gray sky, warning that the storm would be arriving at any moment. A vague memory came to her…one of a Brittany shoreline…and another storm, just off of the coast.

She could hear Raoul's voice…

"_All of this—this place—it is fleeting, just as life is…you cannot remain here in this endless limbo…waiting for a storm that shall never arrive, a boat that shall never dock. You must choose either to go on, or return…"_

Christine lifted her face to the feel the wind, murmuring softly. "It is time for me to let you rest in the past, with my childhood. Please know that I cannot remain in limbo any longer…I have to move on. Perhaps if you had lived, our love would have grown deeper roots." She shook her head. "But I cannot keep asking 'what ifs'…Erik would not understand…not as you did."

An abrupt knock at the door startled the young woman and she dropped the brooch upon the floor, causing Raoul's portrait to pop out of the setting. Calling for the visitor to enter, she knelt to observe the damage done to the jewelry. The small picture seemed to be intact, and with relief, snapped right back into the brooch, as if it had been designed to be removed. Strange, that she had never noticed the little space behind the portrait. Perhaps she would place a lock of Jean-Paul's hair there.

"Madame de Chagny, did I come at a bad time?" The Persian stood in the doorway, the strong winds from the breezeway blowing his robes about. He glanced at her red, puffy eyes and trembling hands.

Christine quickly shook her head, smoothed her skirts, and rose to greet the man. "No, not at all," she sniffed, wiping away the few tears that still clung to her lashes. "I was simply coming to terms with my fate, I suppose," she smiled, trying to infuse a touch of humor in her voice, but failing miserably. "Do you have it?"

"I do." He held up a black package. "However, this also was put into my care today. Perhaps you would like to open this one first?" He handed her another small parcel. She hurriedly tore away the paper, her fingers shaking with unease. Tossing the wrapping behind her she unfolded a length of silky material, the color of the sky. The edges of the _mendil _were embroidered with a fine silver thread, the stitches so tiny and intricate that she could barely see where one ended and the other began. A note fell from the folds of the fabric. She retrieved it and excitedly slit it open, scanning over the brief contents.

_My Dearest Madame,_

_You have now received several letters from me, all of which, unfortunately, have gone unanswered. If you continue in this manner, I shall simply be forced to assume that you have conceded in our rather uneventful parrying match, before you have offered your first en garde. Be advised, my lady, that should you choose to make your move after the game has ended, retaliation beyond your wildest imagination shall rain down upon you._

_The mendil should compliment the bracelets well, I believe._

_Yours,_

_E_

Christine smiled at her angel's brief words; she could tell that his patience was wearing thin. The Persian handed her another note, this time addressed to him. "You may read this as well, if you like. She unfolded the paper and read the letter, at once noting the less playful tone.

_Daroga,_

_I must apologize for not meeting with you face to face, but as several of your daily obligations seem to require the presence of one or more of your household, I am resigned to put my concerns to paper. _

_As you know, I have continued our search for Sergei Dagaev, as recorded in the Comtesse's bank ledger. While I can say with certainty that he most definitely resides in the Jewish Quarter among a tightly knit group of Russian refugees, pinning him down is proving to be an irritable task. The Russian Jews are not especially trusting of strangers (above all, masked strangers), as several radical groups, one being the Narodnaya Volya, have driven them here. I have made several forceful inquiries into Dagaev's whereabouts, all of which have proved fruitless. _

_If no progress has been made within a week's time, it shall soon be necessary to reassess our plan of action._

_Your humble and obedient servant,_

_E_

_PTO_

_Please inform Madame de Chagny that while I have been occupied with the above-mentioned task, I do not intend to back down from the agreement we struck not two weeks ago. She, however, seems determined to forget the entire event. Kindly remind her of her obligation to uphold her end of the diversion._

Christine softly laughed at the man's irrepressibly persistent nature. Her glistening eyes caught those of the daroga's; he was not smiling.

"I must admit, Madame Chagny, that these 'diversions' you and my friend play worry me." The man paced about the room. "This plan of yours, with the lasso—you are playing a game in which you do not know the rules. The punjab lasso is not a toy, Christine. It has the power to stir a very dangerous rage in your angel—rage that I would not wish to see directed at you.

Christine nodded, reaching out for the other package anyway. "Nadir, if you please."

The daroga sighed and handed the woman the other package, containing the punjab lasso. She lifted the lid from the black box and peered at the tightly-coiled, leathery rope nestled within the white lining. The lasso was smooth and sturdy; as she let it unfurl to the ground, she ran it through her fingers, admiring the unblemished leather. She refused to think about the animal it had been taken from.

"It is a much lighter color than Erik's was," she said nervously.

The Persian leveled solemn eyes upon hers. "That is because it has never been used, Christine."

"Oh." The woman put a hand to her throat, forcing back the bile that had risen; it would not do to lose her nerve, now. Her gaze followed Nadir as he paced about the room. Every single aspect of his demeanor told her that he did not approve of what she was about to do.

"Nadir, I know that this troubles you greatly," she began, overlooking the man's quiet snort, "but this is something I must do, precisely for that very reason you mentioned. This simple lasso…it has a hold over me that I cannot fathom. I have tasted death because of it; now I have so many questions, I don't know where to begin." She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. "But Erik can teach me! He can answer my questions. I need to know what drives him to kill, Nadir…I want to see why death absorbed him for so long. And once I understand this, I will understand _him_."

The Persian shook his head. "I believe you are making a grave mistake, Comtesse. Erik burned that rope of evil for a good reason, and I wish that you would leave it in ashes. If you must seek him as your husband, do so openly by reasoning with him. Tell him what you want from him…see what his reaction is. It may surprise you."

Christine held out her hands in helplessness. "You know as well as I do that Erik cannot be reasoned with. He has resolutely decided to keep himself hidden away from me, and no amount of reasoning will persuade him otherwise. The only time he throws caution to the wind, unfortunately, is during his black rages—when he takes what he wants. And I believe he wants a wife."

"This is true," the daroga replied steadily. "However, carefully laid plans tend to go horribly wrong during his black rages. What if you are mistaken in what he wants? I have been, before, and it cost me five years of my life. As I said, I would hate to see you hurt, Christine."

Fear and doubt seeped into her mind, and she paused at length before softly answering him. "This is a risk I am willing to take, Nadir." She bit her lip. "I…I don't think that he would hurt me."

The Persian sighed in resignation and patted her cheek. "I can see that you are a force almost as formidable as your angel. Very well, take this risk, if you must. I shall return in ten minutes to walk you to the ruins entrance.

OOOOOO

The obscure entrance the sister had spoken of was not difficult to locate, once one knew where to look for it. At first glance, the heavy wooden door appeared to lead to nothing of consequence: a storage space under the stairs, or a side room off of the hallway. The doorway itself was only four feet tall and distinctly reminded Christine of some secret passage to another world, as she had read about in fairy tales.

"If he is down there, he will most likely be living close to the water," Nadir explained as he fiddled with lighting the lantern for the woman.

"I had thought to look near the cistern," Christine said quietly, peering around the empty sanctuary of the convent.

He nodded, holding out the lantern. "It will be easy to become disoriented, Madame. If you begin to lose your sense of direction, turn around and come back."

She took the light from his hand. "Perhaps I should have brought some of my personal stationary with me," she murmured, recollecting the flecks of paper she had scattered in Erik's labyrinth to lead her back through 'Hansel and Gretel's forest.' _What a child I was even then, not five months ago, _she mused.It was comforting to remember her first glimpse of him through the darkness, after years of believing him to be dead.

She took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. "If I become disoriented, I will go back."

"Are you certain you do not want me to accompany you?"

The woman smiled at the man, touched by his concern for her even after she had tossed aside his advice. "You are a good friend, Nadir, but I have to do this alone. I am not only proving my strength to him; I need to prove it to myself."

The Persian nodded. "May he endeavor to deserve you, Madame. _Ma as-salaamah_."

Christine watched his retreating back in despair. For a fleeting moment, she almost ran after him as he left the sanctuary. Then she straightened her spine and tried her hand at the doorknob, exhaling with relief when it swung open. Glancing back and forth to assure that no one observed her movements, she slipped through the door and into the dark unknown.

_This is not a fairy tale, Christine, _she quietly reprimanded. _Erik is going to be tremendously angry with you—and very hurt—until he understands your motives. In all likelihood, you will destroy the fragile understanding you have patched together if you do not tread with care. Fairy tales have no place in this deadly game. One misstep…_

The light in her lantern at once illuminated the tunnel around her—a set of stone stairs faded into the emptiness below, dusty and dirty, seemingly carved directly out of the ground. Christine put her hand to the cold, rough wall to steady herself as she took the first few tentative steps down into the blackness, at once thankful that she had chosen to wear her _libas_ instead of the long gray gown.

Darkness enveloped her, folding its velvet-clad arms around the woman—an Esther in her finery, braving death to plead before her Persian king. She had dressed for Erik, carefully donning the pretty things that he had chosen for her. Dark curls were loosely tucked under the exquisite blue _mendil_ he had given her, her locks perfumed with the lavender scent he found so enthralling. Gold coins _smadeh _gracing her forehead and blue bracelets at her wrists clanked as she moved, their music lightly accompanying the soft thud of her footsteps through the old Roman path.

And lastly, a punjab lasso was carefully coiled under her blue _jillayeh_.

…_one misstep, and he will turn you away before your game is finished. Erik has to move after you do, to gain the upper hand of the play. Strike first, or be struck. Become the hunter, not the hunted. Hide your weaknesses, so others cannot destroy you…that is what Nadir said of his ways. Have you not seen proof of this time and again, first at the Opéra Populaire, now in Jerusalem? He must believe he has control of himself and of you; that he has struck the final, fatal blow. _

_Otherwise, he will turn you away as he did in Paris and in London. Leave you behind for good…_

The woman halted in the tunnel as she rounded a corner, panic at once seizing her. The path split. She lifted her lantern and peered through the blackness, struggling to make out what the darkness held. Three ancient stone arches rose up on either side of her, each heralding a road that led to a different area of underground Jerusalem. It was impossible to know which path led to the cistern and to Erik; one wrong turn, and she could be lost for days in the labyrinth. Why had she imagined that the narrow tunnel would take her directly to the old pool?

Wobbly nerves stirred her to queasiness, and for a moment she thought she would be ill. Old, familiar weaknesses began to settle into her spirit—feelings of failure, of stupidity. For a moment, she wondered if it wouldn't be best just to turn back and admit defeat.

_If you continue on, you will never find your way out again,_ whispered the child inside of her. _And even if you do find Erik, what will it matter? He is a genius…you could never match his brilliance…he will see right through your petty deception the first time he glances at your wide-eyed face…_

A small cry escaped from her lips. She closed her eyes and breathed in the dank air, willing away the childlike voice of self-doubt. What was it that Raoul had told her? His words once again echoed in her mind, heightening her resolve…

"_Christine Daaé, if you truly desire to save him, you must help your angel to face himself; there is no other way."_

_No weakness, Christine, _she reaffirmed_. You have to be strong, as Nadir said…for your angel's sake, and for yours. There is nothing to fear in the darkness…it is a gentle, familiar friend to you. To walk in shadows is not as frightening when there is one close to you that knows the secrets they hide…_

_The secrets they hide…_What was it Sister Helena had told her about the ancient city underneath the convent?

"…_when we tapped into the water source underneath the convent, we had to cut through the old plaza's thick paving stones that had been used to vault over the cistern…"_

Christine gazed upon her surroundings, endeavoring to see them in a different light. Three arches, where three roads had at one time met. Massive squares made up the smooth floor of the room…a room that at one time, she was sure, had been Hadrian's marketplace. And if this was the Lithostrotos, then the cistern would not be down one of the three roads, but directly under her feet.

_There must be a way below, somewhere…_

The woman closed her eyes and listened intently to the quiet of the chamber. The faint whistling of the draft through the tunnels and stairway was the only soft sound that met her ears. And then the gust stilled, and she heard it—the faint lapping of water somewhere far away, a noise that would barely be discernible to one who was not listening for it. Holding her lantern down to light the stones, she followed the sound across the Lithostrotos, the sloshing gradually becoming louder as she moved farther left.

At one point the light failed to glint off of the floor, but sank through a large black hole where one of the squares had been pulled away. A wooden ladder peeked through the opening, the only means to the lower level. Christine frowned and tucked the hem of her _thob_ into her sash, reluctant to climb down the rickety thing. With one hand on the ladder and the other clutching the lantern, she cautiously stepped down one rung at a time until her feet safely touched the floor beneath.

Holding her light above her head, she peered into the new chamber, at once awed by what she saw. She stood at the top of a narrow staircase that led down into the cistern water.

The cistern itself was not a small well as she had pictured, but a massive chamber divided into three compartments, its reservoir the size of the _Opéra Populaire's_ auditorium. The walls slithered with gold and green reflections as the lantern light bounced off of the water's surface. Moving the beam across the slimy walls, the woman searched for a clue to indicate her angel's residence. The pale light crossed some sort of wooden scaffolding that ran half the circumference of the cistern, then disappeared into a black opening on the other side.

_If he is not living in the chamber beyond that doorway, then I shall abandon this plan completely, for it will truly mean I know nothing of the man._ Gingerly stepping off of the stairwell, the Comtesse eased her weight onto the planks and tested their durability. The walkway appeared to be sound. As quietly as possible, she made her way along the edge of the cistern until she reached the little black opening. Stretching her hand out in front of her, she was surprised to feel rough material. Further investigation revealed that the material was actually a black drop-cloth that had been hung over the arched doorway.

_I knew it!…_she rejoiced, and drew back the curtain. The chamber was pitch black.

Lifting the lantern, she peered about her angel's abode. The room itself resembled a cave more than the ruins of ancient fortress, save for a few ornamental pillar bases and bricked-in archways. The walls were an orangish color, streaked with brown that was either the residue of a fire, or muck from the damp air. Signs of life were scattered about the chamber: several candelabras that had obviously been taken from the convent, a rucksack, sleeping palette and blanket, several changes of clothing, a scattering of papers, and a few other necessities. Apparently her angel had been living a sparse existence for the past two months—something that probably did not bother him in the least.

Christine quietly moved about the room lighting candles and steering away from his personals, afraid to be caught prying in things she should not. Sheets and sheets of paper were scattered about one corner as if they had been blown across the floor by the wind, or had been rifled through in a frenzied manner. Kneeling to gather them up, one of the pages caught her eye, and she quickly glanced over the red notations.

It was one of his compositions—a recent one, judging by the freshness of the ink. Flipping through the other sheets in her hand, she belatedly realized that certain pages of music had most likely not been haphazardly scattered, but placed across the floor in a deliberate, overlapping order. A blush crept to her cheeks and she immediately set the music down, dreading Erik's reaction to her carelessness.

_Ah well, nothing to be done about it now,_ she sighed, and lifted the sheet that had originally caught her attention.

The music was some sort of aria, though the melody was odd and disjointed, and the lyrics were written in what appeared to be gibberish. Reading through the phrases, she picked several out that did not appear to be extremely difficult and hummed through the line. She struggled to pick out any coherent pattern to the melody, as sharps and flats leapt out in the oddest places.

As the woman sang on, however, she began to realize that the music was meant to have a freer, exotic feel as opposed to a strict cadence—certainly it was nothing like any aria she had ever heard. As she became more comfortable with the rise and fall of the phrases, the melody took on an obscurely familiar sound…almost like the _adhan_ she heard five times daily, echoing from the minarets.

The music was ingenious…tantalizing, rhythmic. Christine tried to sing a few of the words, her tongue stumbling over the strange pronunciations. She frowned in concentration, trying it again.

"The language is Persian. It is written phonetically."

Christine spun around, the paper fluttering to the ground. Her angel stood before her, his glittering eyes fixed upon her face.

"How did you find this place?" He swept his cloak from his shoulders, sending droplets of rain flying across the room. His thin fingers brushed the damp hair from his face and slicked it back against his head. Glancing about the room, he gave a cursory examination of his possessions to ensure that nothing had been touched or moved.

"I only learned of the cistern yesterday. It seemed the most logical place for you to be." Christine searched for words; the courage she had fought so hard to maintain was now sadly lacking. "Your music is simply breathtaking, Erik. So unique and foreign sounding," she stumbled, "although I am afraid I accidentally ruined the order…"

Her teacher waved a hand, dismissing her apology. "It is no matter. I can rearrange it."

She stared at him doubtfully. "You are not angered by my prying?"

"The music is for you, Christine. All of it." His tone was indifferent; when his eyes caught hers, however, the gold burned her relentlessly. "I wrote it specifically to strengthen your voice; you would have seen it, eventually, as soon as we resumed your lessons."

Her heart tightly constricted in her chest, the sheer impact of his gift striking her like a warm gale. At least fifty pages of music were scattered about, a tangible proof of his love for her. He had heard her pathetic, degenerated voice. Yet instead of bemoaning the loss of the golden soprano, he had tirelessly composed scores upon scores of notes and lyrics, pouring his genius into a new music to compliment her new voice. Some great fear inside of her loosened; not even the devastation of her voice could destroy the music that bound their souls together.

_Mon Dieu,_ she mourned silently, suddenly remembering the punjab lasso that rested just under her cloak. _How can I ask this of him now?_

He continued on, taking no notice of her conflicted spirit. "The music had been ordered from simple to complex, so the piece in your hand would have been your first assignment. I am pleased that you were able to pick out the melody so quickly."

Christine struggled to speak, her mind foggy with panic. "Erik…this is not an easy piece. It is beautiful, but…"

It did not take her angel long to sum up her utter distress. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, at once seeing that his music brought her no pleasure. "Christine, enough of your tête-à-tête. Why are you here?"

"I…I have come to ask for lessons." She could not look him in the face.

"As we have been discussing."

His voice was smooth and calculating…his gaze swept over her, scrutinizing her motives without missing a single detail. He was summing her up, already looking for ways to gain the upper hand.

Where had her reserves of strength gone? They had fled from her before she had even begun her attack, leaving her to fight her battle alone…weak…a child once more.

And yet there was no going back now; she had made her choice long ago, carefully planning for this moment even before they had begun their game. The gold ring pressed against her skin under her _thob_…a hard, glittering reminder of what would be hers if she could just survive these next few hours. One game was all she needed to win against him. Just one; then he could play all the games he wanted to from there on out and she wouldn't care. Because when the games finished, they would discover they had fought on the same side.

She shook her head, mustering her strength once more. "I am not asking for voice lessons, Erik," she murmured, slipping the punjab lasso from under her _jillayeh_ and laying it across her lap as if it were a docile serpent.

"I am asking you to teach me to use this."

Erik's face turned stony, his lips white and bloodless.

Dear God, she hoped she had not made a mistake.

_

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Thank you for reading! I love looking at your reviews, and take into account all feedback—both good and bad. _


	25. Corruption Comes Honestly

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for the mysterious Jewish man…he's all mine!

**Side Notes:**

_Thank you to Barefoot and Chat for being such fantastic betas! I loff you, dears! _

_Also, a huge, huge thank you to Kyrie74 (Paula74) for the incredible research she did for me. I am posting her research in its entirety to my website._

_This chapter was surprisingly easy to write – perhaps because I've had it plotted for awhile :) The only thing that bugs me a bit was that it was hard to ease into after the last chapter. Maybe reading the end of Ch. 24 and then picking up with Ch. 25 makes it a bit smoother. Of course, it could just be my neurotic writer tendencies talking! _

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)_

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Corruption Comes Honestly **

It had not been a good afternoon for Erik.

To say that he was bone-weary was an understatement. Three nights spent in frenzied composing, without sleep or nourishment, had driven him to near exhaustion. There had been no time to rest during the day, however. He had finally encountered a rather weak man in the Jewish quarter that was not averse to accepting a purse-full of liras and a promise of mercy, in exchange for information on the elusive Sergei Dagaev. The man had sent Erik to a tiny bookshop, which the _People's Will _turncoat was supposedly keeping. In the end, though, the lead had proven fruitless, and he had been forced to return to the convent in the middle of a pounding rain.

And Christine had been ignoring their game, which also irked him to no end.

The cold damp settled into his bones, making him feel his age. Cross and wet, he had wanted nothing more than to collapse on his hard pallet and sleep. As he had returned to his Roman paths and observed the scuffed footprints on the dusty floors, however, he knew that sleep would not be his that night. With the practiced skill of a hunter, he had noiselessly crept to his cistern chamber, brandishing his Persian dagger, only to find his beloved angel waiting for him in the dim underground recesses…

"What does it feel like…to kill?" Her words came quietly, whispered as innocently as if she had asked why flowers grew.

"Christine, do not ask me such questions," Erik said dangerously. "I won't inquire as to how or where you found that rope in your lap, but I recommend you take it from my sight at once."

She peered up at him steadily, her clear eyes deepened by the blue of the _mendil—_just as he knew they would when he had bought it. Her delicate forehead was smattered with gold that jingled gracefully when she tilted her head, creating music with each movement. Bracelets at her wrists, loose dark curls about her face…all gave her an exotic beauty that reminded him of the tragic Cleopatra, caressing a deadly asp…the rope in her lap…her chosen poison…

The queen awaited his answer. She was striking. He could not breathe.

"What does it feel like, you ask?" the masked man whispered, fear gripping his heart and weakening his knees. "It feels as though you are high above the earth on a mighty tower, the god of all you see. Just as swiftly as you rose, the tower crumbles and you plummet to hell. You feel your soul being ripped apart, and you are dead." He wet his pale lips and watched her eyes widen with something akin to alarm. "Death, Christine—that is all the lasso will bring you. Death has eaten so _much_ of me; I would have no soul left if not for you and my music. I won't let it touch you as it has me."

For a moment, the woman studied the ground, her gaze following the fissures between the stones. Then she slowly rose, advancing towards him with the stealth of the fatal queen. As she moved closer, the fear in her eyes seemed to fade. He was faintly aware of stepping back and away from the pull of her eyes, until his back touched the wall and she had him cornered. When she reached him, she looked at him not in dread, but—God help him—hunger. His protégé clutched the length of rope in her hands and leaned forward, hoarsely whispering in his ear.

"Death? You think that death has not yet touched me, Erik? Open your eyes! Look at my neck. It is too late to keep me from its shadowy fingers…it has taken my parents, my husband…it tried to take me, but I was not afraid of it." She shook her head resolutely. "I wasn't afraid because you were there with Death, all around me. And that lasso—it was a friend to me as I was dying." She grabbed the soft wool of his _abaya_. "A friend that can be wielded to protect my son!"

Erik turned his face away in horror; he could not watch his own mad lust for blood reflected in his angel's eyes. "Christine, why this? Why not a knife, or a pistol? If you want something to protect Jean-Paul with, I can teach you to use those. But not the lasso!"

Her eyes met his defiantly, daring him to reject her. Even now, she would not listen to his warnings.

The man shook his head in exasperation. "Always a Eurydice, Christine—forever demanding to understand things better left unexplained. When will you learn?"

The woman stomped her foot in anger. "And you shall always be Orpheus—plowing forward with no explanation of your reasoning. I am not a child that needs to be controlled, Erik!" She breathed deeply, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Thank you for trying to keep me from the dark and evil things in your mind. However, I don't need blind protection anymore, my angel. I need instruction—I want to know why murder grips you so." Christine placed her forehead on his chest, her body lightly brushing against his. She lifted her chin and gazed up at him, her eyes dark and bloodthirsty. "Please…teach me. It must be the lasso."

_The thrill of the kill…_he could see the craving course through her…he had felt it many times before. Erik clasped his hands behind his back as the familiar lust for power invaded his veins, reducing him to a mere addict who trembled at the sight of morphine. The man did not know which he wanted more…her, or the lasso…

Both whispered his name, tempting him to throw away his cares and give in to their siren song.

His angel placed her palms over his heart; the rope slipped from her hands and slithered down between them, landing in a heap at their feet. Slowly, deliberately, her fingertips traced along his ribcage, her touch feathery and light …over his stomach…lower…

"Christine…" he breathed raggedly, letting his head fall over top of her curls.

For a moment, he was lost in her...her fragrant hair…the feel of her limbs pressed against his…her hands smoothing over him, then clutching mercilessly at his hips. The burn for the kill paled to the torrents of yearning that swept through him. Through a thick haze, his eyes focused on a point of light flickering somewhere beyond his angel's brown head…the flame danced and played as a gust of dank air blew through the doorway, threatening to snuff out its feeble existence…

_Merde, how can I ever be strong again?_

With a last cry of effort, he wrapped his thin fingers around her wrists and wrenched them away. Deftly swinging out from under her, he spun the woman around and pushed her against the stone wall, ignoring her whimper of pained surprise. He grasped her shoulders to pin her in place and stared angrily into her face. "Never, ever do that again!" he growled, his gold eyes just inches from hers. "For God's sake Christine, I am only a man! A man with a deadly temper, and the last thing you want to do is provoke me. Do you have any idea of the fire you are playing with?"

"Yes," she whispered, her expression briefly contorting with fear. As he watched, however, her eyes once more hardened, and she slowly slid under his arms and down the wall. Stooping to the ground, she retrieved the abandoned punjab lasso and hung it over his shoulders as if it were a garland of May flowers. With a renewed force, she grasped the ends of the rope and drew him to her. "I know exactly what I am doing, Erik," she murmured, her words low and throaty. "I am seducing you with my new lasso. I am manipulating you."

The man stared at the woman in utter disbelief, her poisonous words hanging in the air. "What do you want of me, Christine?" he whispered, desperately clinging to the last frayed threads of self-control.

"What do I want of you, my angel? I should think it obvious."

She was mocking him. Flinging back his very words from that long ago morning in the London town home. The same day he had intended to ask her to be his wife…the day she had discovered the bloody lasso and had turned him away for his crimes. So this was what she wanted from him—no ring, no promises. Not even the music he had composed for her. She simply wanted a useless game in which they eventually fell to the floor and had done with it.

The sting of rejection shouldn't have surprised him. After all, he was a murderer—hadn't he told her that he was the last person she should want for her son? Then why was blinding red rage once more eating away at his insides? Some intangible facet hovered beyond him, just out of reach…her smoky blue eyes…perilous voice…

All of a sudden, it came to him; the answer cut him like a knife, sending his anger spiraling up into madness. Christine had taken complete control of him—wielded his lust for blood and twisted it for her own purposes. _She is toying with me—oh, I can understand it all, now. This is part of our game…she thinks to take away what little control I have left and make me a weak shadow of myself! Putting me back in my cage…laughing at me in my weakness…_

_All that you desire is within reach…_ Her words taunted him.

"Always within reach, but never mine, angel..." he murmured darkly. _Never truly mine._

Fire flared within Erik's breast, the rage in his soul welling up as Christine's vile rope burned his back. He pressed his shaky hands to either side of her skull, agitatedly rubbing his thumbs against her temples. _No…this is not my angel…it couldn't be! This devil…this queen with the burning eyes…she is the one that has yanked the ground from under my feet…stirred the beast within me. Christine would never know to do such cruel things…_

Panic flickered across the woman's face, and for a minute Erik saw his own angel, frightened and cowering under his menacing hands. Then she closed her eyes and tensed under his touch, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. It would be so easy to crush her…

Oh God, he could not hurt her…he did not want to hurt her…

"That day I asked you what you wanted of me," she cried, her words rushed and panicked as her teacher's veneer of sanity crumbled. " 'Isn't it obvious?' you retorted. Well, it isn't obvious, Erik! Tell me what you wanted of me that day," she sobbed, wincing as his fingers slid away from her skull and dug painfully into her soft shoulders. "Was it my body, warm and open underneath you, moving with yours upon that wretched piano? If that was what you desired, then why didn't you just take me? I was afraid, but you could have had me—you _had_ to have known I was weak! You could have dismissed Papi, or taken me with you to your room—" She shook her head, tears of fright coursing down her cheeks as her angel's face distorted with a feverish rage. "But you didn't do it, Erik! Tell me what you really wanted, please!"

Erik roared and shoved her against the wall. "What do I want?" he bellowed, the anguish in his voice mirroring that of his heart. "How _dare_ you ask me such a thing? All I have _ever_ wanted was _you_, Christine—All of you, not just pieces!" He pressed a hand to her throat, feeling her shudder under his touch... "I want this!"

…and against her forehead. "This…"

Then over her heart. "And this!"

His lips curled bitterly. "Your pathetic gesture tonight was insulting," he spat. "I don't want a whore—I could easily pay for one. I want a wife! Someone who will belong to me completely..."

And then a dark smile slowly spread across the masked man's face as his mind began to churn with far-reaching possibilities. He could win this game, yet! She had unwittingly presented him with the masterstroke he needed. Oh, the clever girl thought she could conquer him by offering herself, believing that he would sweep up the bait in a heartbeat. When she came to him, however, she had not counted on his refusing her. He lowered his face to hers, his eyes cold and brittle, gleaming with madness.

"You think that all I want is a lover—a rough tumble now and then, no promises made? Of course you would!" he cried, his voice cracking with emotion. "I am a monster, Christine—not fit for such things as marriage, children, and happiness." His cold fingers wrapped around hers and he yanked the speechless girl away from the wall, spinning her to the floor. "Well, I am done with our game—I have out-maneuvered you, Madame! You thought to bring me to my knees, merely with these feeble overtures? Is that the best you can do?" he barked, leaning over the mute girl triumphantly. "I refuse to eat crumbs from your hand!" Rifling through his satchel, he tossed articles onto his pallet until he found a small leather pouch. Opening the drawstring, he dumped the contents into his palm and turned back to the Comtesse, leering with unhinged wildness.

"That day in the London townhome, I swore to myself that I would never make such a grave mistake as to ask you to take this ring," he snarled, holding the plain gold band between his fingers for the woman to see. "Well, I am not _asking_ you to wear it, even now." He grasped her hand and pried her fist open. With all the gentleness of a monster, he shoved the plain gold piece of jewelry onto her ring finger, scraping her knuckle. "I am forcing you to. And this time, there is no Raoul de Chagny to come to your rescue!"

Erik roughly dragged her through the door and back across the cistern, wrenching her arm every time she stumbled upon the stones. He did not slow his driven gate as he carelessly pulled the Comtesse up the stairs, though the path was slick with layers of muck.

"W-where are you taking me?" Christine sputtered, her voice trembling with terror. Only mocking, wicked laughter met her question; the fierce man pressed on as if he had not heard her.

"Where else would I be taking you, my dear, but to a church?" he answered at length, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Did you think that I would simply take you to my bed without making you swear before your God to cleave only to me? Let us give the happy occasion its due solemnity!" He laughed again, and shook his head. "It may take a bit of hunting to find a priest willing to wed a nameless, faceless monster to a frightened little girl, but I believe that with enough persuasion—" he pulled the lasso from his shoulders and held it above his head "—we can find someone willing to do the job. Perhaps you shall have your first lesson in killing tonight, my dear!"

Up…up towards the light he climbed, like a demented Orpheus who had wrenched an unwilling Eurydice out of Elysian bliss to carry her back to the bleak world. Damn it, he was sick of playing their games. He was ready for it to be done with so he could claim his prize. This was it. No more waiting—no more painful concessions to her needs, no more putting her safety above his desires.

They emerged from the darkness onto the Via Dolorosa, the light blinding their sensitive eyes.

If Orpheus had turned to gaze upon Eurydice, even for a moment, he would have witnessed her face beaming in victory.

* * *

The man gathered his black coat more tightly about his slight frame as the rain pelted his face. Streams of water ran down his wide-brimmed hat and into his beard and temple locks, soaking the front of his shirt. The afternoon was growing dim; another two hours, and daylight would be completely extinguished. He couldn't wait much longer in his current position at the corner of the orphanage, watching for the masked man to reemerge. The man thought about going into the ruins after him; if the _Narodnaya Volya_ had sent the stranger, however, he knew he would not come out alive. 

It was more than likely that the masked man had already left the underground city at some other location. And if the stranger had done so, he mightn't ever discover why he had been asking for Sergei Dagaev in the bookstore earlier that day...

Just as he was contemplating turning for home and back to his wife and children, the door at the side of the convent swung open. The very same masked man barreled through, dragging a young woman behind him. He could see her say something to the man; it did not make him happy, for he roughly jerked the girl to his side. This didn't bode well for the lady. Worried for her safety, he left his corner and took up pursuit from a distance.

As the hidden man peered more closely at the woman, he was struck with the familiarity of her features. Picking up his pace, he moved a bit closer until he could hear her voice. Just as he had thought—she was French. He searched his memory, struggling to put a name to her face.

And then he remembered—Raoul de Chagny's wife. Rather, Raoul de Chagny's widow. She would not recognize him, but he knew her well enough. If she was in danger, then that would mean he also would be, before long. And if she had found her way to Jerusalem, how long before the _Fraternité _caught up with her?

Soon, he would venture.

The man wanted to turn around at once and retreat to his home and family. This masked person could only mean trouble for him. His conscience, however, was a force to be reckoned with; he could not simply abandon the Comtesse to her fate. Silently cursing himself for having ventured out into a storm in the first place, he followed them through the Franciscan monastery.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

"Erik," Christine whimpered pathetically, "you are hurting my wrist. And this is not the way to the Sepulchre."

The man sneered in contempt of the drivel that had plagued him since they left the convent. Her attempts to reason only drove him more resolutely through the rain, towards the Church of the Flagellation.

"Christine, do you honestly believe we could marry at the Sepulchre, in the middle of those crowds of people?"

"Angel, perhaps it would be best to wait to marry until we return to Paris," she cajoled, her voice edged with panic. "Then our friends and family could be there…"

_The little fool_, he simpered. "Christine, you really can be annoyingly dense at times. Have you forgotten that I have no friends or family? Or were you just referring to your disgusting circle of Parisian aristocrats?"

"N-no," she stuttered, pushing a wet curl under her soaked _mendil_. "But I have none of my records…no baptismal certificate—"

"_Mon Dieu_, Christine, I don't even have a last name! Your records would do you no good."

"Yes, I suppose that is true…"

The masked man reveled in his utter control over the wide-eyed girl. At last, he felt his life coming into a comfortable balance again. He could never have happiness, but at least he would have the stability of familiar grounds. His arm wrapped around his companion's waist in a warning embrace, lest she should decide to become brave and flee for the convent.

"Erik, whatever you do, please do not harm Father Jakob. If he refuses to give us the marriage rite, I will say my own vows to you. We don't need the church's blessing—"

"That won't do, Madame de Chagny," he retorted in vexation. "I said that I don't want a mistress. And I know very well you would not take such vows seriously." Swinging open the heavy wooden doors, Erik strode into the tiny church with his bleating sacrificial lamb firmly in tow.

"After you." He gestured down the aisle, towards the startled priest.

Twenty years melted away as his gaze swept through the dark room, taking in the flickering candles, brass censers, and worn pews. It even smelled as it had twenty years ago…the sickly-sweet fragrance of incense…

And a priest, kneeling before a battered altar, saying his evening prayers.

_How fitting,_ Erik gravely mused, _that I should take a wife in the very spot I took a life. Only a monster would do such a thing._

Father Jakob Haar turned and rose from the altar, his face pale with fear at the sight of the masked assassin. He absently smoothed the wrinkles from evening mass vestments as he reluctantly moved to greet them.

"Sir, M-Madame Garnier," he stuttered, his gaze immediately drawn to the noose dangling from the man's hands.

"Ah, so you two are acquainted!" Erik exclaimed, wrapping a possessive arm tightly around Christine's shoulders. "Well, this should make things a little easier. Madame Garnier and I wish to be married. And to save you the trouble of asking, we have no birth certificates, baptismal records, family, or witnesses. In fact, I have no last name. I am certain, however, that we shall be able to overcome these obstacles to everyone's satisfaction." He brandished the lasso and hugged the woman more closely to him, baring his teeth in a devilish grin.

The priest put a hand to his neck and swayed a bit. Beads of perspiration popped up on the terrified man's forehead and for a moment, it seemed as though he would faint.

"Father Jakob," Christine called to the man, forcing him to focus on her voice. "Father Jakob, this is the man I spoke to you about. Do you recall our discussion?" She gave the priest a significant look.

The holy man stared back at her, his face slowly registering her meaning. His furrowed brow softened as he studied the young woman's pleading eyes, seeing in them a desperate urgency for his help.

"And you are here of your own volition, my child? I will refuse his request, if you are not."

Erik pressed a warning hand into the small of the woman's back. "Answer the man, my angel," he hissed.

"Yes, Father," she chirped obediently. "I wish to marry this man."

The priest nodded warily and edged towards the courtyard door. "Very well, then. I shall simply step out to fetch a certificate of marriage from the Friary—"

"We shall come with you," Erik said abruptly, crossing the room to Father Jakob's side, his angel firmly in tow.

The priest's eyes swept over the agitated man, his gaze once more resting upon the pale fingers twisting the deadly rope. He nodded and led them through the courtyard, holding his arm up to shield his eyes from the pelting rain. They strode through the sparse monastery, down a stone hallway to a dimly lit office that bespoke the friar's vows of poverty. Shelves of tattered, worn books and a plain crucifix upon the wall were the only ornamentation in the study. Papers were scattered about the wobbly desk, telling of a fast-paced life often ruled by chaos.

Erik carefully laid the punjab lasso on the corner of the desk within arm's reach.

Father Jakob glanced at the rope, discreetly cleared his throat, then rifled through a battered file box and pulled out a certificate printed on a thick piece of paper. Seating himself at the desk, he dipped his pen and began to shakily scrawl the necessary information.

"Very well, Madame Garnier, we shall start with you. Please give me your full name, date and place of birth, your age—"

Christine bit her lip, her face flushing red. "Father, I have a confession to make. My name is not 'Garnier'…it is 'de Chagny'."

Erik groaned. "For God's sake, Christine," he cried, ignoring the priest's wince. "Why did you tell him that?"

"Because I don't want a false name on my marriage certificate, Erik!" She stomped her foot indignantly, the scared little girl momentarily vanishing.

The man smirked at her outburst. "Well, you shall have one anyway, once we marry. Or did you want to become nameless, as I am?"

Father Jakob peered at the man thoughtfully, seeing him in a new light. "You have no family name, my son?"

"No, I do not," he snipped, daring the priest to pity him.

The holy man paused for reflection, then took up his ink pen again.

"You cannot marry this woman without a last name," he replied succinctly. "We shall simply have to remedy this." The priest wrote something onto the certificate, then handed it to the leery man.

Erik read over the scrawls and sneered. "What a witty name, Father: _Renard_. Are you comparing me to a thieving, cunning fox?"

The puzzled priest took the certificate again and studied his handwriting. With a cluck of his tongue, he went over the "i" with his pen several times, changing the name. "I apologize, Monsieur; my spelling is not the best at times. Yes, _Renard_ is a fox in your language. In my mother tongue, however, _Reinard_ means 'honest, pure, and incorruptible.' I think this would be a fitting last name for your bride, wouldn't you agree?"

Erik nodded, stunned by the priest's calm reply.

"Perhaps you shall endeavor towards your name as well, Monsieur. Of course, you may use _your_ version, if you like. It matters not to me, which you choose. Now, since you have no birth certificate, kindly estimate your age and date of birth for me."

"Forty-four, I think," he stuttered. "I am not sure, really. You may put whatever you like for the date…"

The father filled out the rest of the information. "There! A work of fiction, if ever there was one. However, once you return to France and register this document, it will become fact." He stared long and hard at the masked man, stressing the implication of his words. "This piece of paper is the beginning of an identity for you, my son. Establish yourself. Have a family. Become legitimate. And please, do not sully this name with sin; this is God's gift to you, and must be treated as such." The man rose from the desk and motioned for his guests to follow him back to the church.

Scooping up the lasso, Erik trailed wordlessly, his mind reeling with what the priest had just given him. _A name. I have an identity…a life._ _I could begin an ordinary existence in some reclusive town where no one knows who I am and knows nothing about me, except that my name is Reinard. And Reinard means honest, pure, and incorruptible…_

The man glanced over at his grim young companion, noticing for the first time that she was following him without duress. He could not be sure if she did so out of resignation to her fate, or because she knew that if she ran, she would be caught. Nevertheless, her peaceful acceptance of the situation made him uneasy.

_Yes, _he thought bitterly, _someday she may not think twice about being married to a monster._

"You there," Father Jakob cried, gesturing to a Jewish man in the courtyard. "Would you kindly serve as a witness to this marriage? This rite must have _some_ semblance of legitimacy."

The startled man looked about for an escape route. At last seeing that he was caught, he shrugged his consent and followed the couple into the sanctuary, sliding into the back pew.

The priest descended on an Arab child playing in the rain puddles in the side street. "And you, boy! _Y'allah! _How old are you?" he questioned in fluent Arabic.

"Nine," the boy replied, holding up his fingers in case the father had not understood.

The frazzled priest sighed and took the child's hand. "I need your assistance for a moment, my son. If your father has any questions when you return home, he may speak to me."

The boy nodded curiously and followed the priest into the chapel, careful to wipe away as much of the mud from his feet as possible.

And so the unconventional marriage commenced, the small group as unlikely a wedding party as had ever existed: a fuming masked groom, a weak-willed bride, a coerced priest, and a bewildered Jew and Arab as witnesses.

The couple knelt at the altar, each eyeing the other cagily. Father Jakob took a deep breath and uttered a quick prayer, asking for forgiveness for performing such a sacrilegious ceremony.

"Before I begin the rite of marriage, I must ask if either of you wishes to make a confession and go before God with a clear conscience." The priest stared pointedly at the masked man.

Erik held his gaze in defiance, absently weaving the lasso in between his fingers. "I have nothing to confess, Father."

A startled gasp came from the woman at his side. Erik released the rope and took up her hand, feeling it tremble in his. Her tiny fingers at once went cold with some new fear.

"Did I say something to trouble you, my dear?" he whispered dryly, his breath warm upon her ear.

Christine glared at her teacher; he had obviously thwarted some plan of hers. She shook her head like a petulant child and straightened her spine, rejecting the priest's offer.

"I made my confession this morning, Father, and will probably have to make one tomorrow, I am sure."

Erik smirked at her words. _My Christine…such a devout little angel when she wants to be. _And then he remembered his new name: honest…pure…incorruptible. Damn it, wasn't her innocent piety one of the things that made him love her so? Why else had he been so angry earlier when she had suggested that they become lovers?

_Because it was not my angel speaking to me—it was not my Christine, but some domineering temptress she had been trying to be, for God knows what purpose. _Yet she was still at his side; the obedient little singer that had captivated him, which he had longed for in place of the unpredictable woman that unnerved him so. Passive, heart-breakingly meek Christine. How calmly she accepted the words being spoken over their heads. Her marriage to a murderer…

_Why does she not speak up and stop this travesty? _Erik wondered anxiously.

"_Amórem vestrum coniugálem Christus abúnde benedícit et ad mútuam perpetuámque fidelitátem et ad cétera Matrimónii offícia assuménda eos peculiári ditat et róborat Sacraménto…"_

Fear paralyzed his body as the Latin droned on and on. The altar loomed before him, a testament to all that was evil in his life.

And all that was good…

Christine's hand still shook in his. He remembered his own hand trembling when he had removed his lasso from Father Cyril's broken neck. Right here was where it had happened…the priest had turned at the sound of footsteps, falling to the ground as he saw the demon stalking towards him with a readied noose in his rope. The fool had hid behind the altar in desperation, mumbling incoherently about sparing the life of a holy man. The only mercy Erik had shown him was to end his life quickly, with as little suffering as possible.

"_The shah sends his greetings,"_ the assassin had quipped, before whipping the lasso around the dead man's throat with a flick of his wrist, and yanking it tight. A sickening snap had echoed throughout the dark church…

"_Erik, vis accípere Christine in uxórem tuam et promíttis te illi fidem servatúrum, inter próspera et advérsa, in ægra et in sana valetúdine, ut eam díligas et honóres ómnibus diébus vitæ tuæ?"_

He could hear that dreadful cracking sound even now…see Father Cyril's blank, staring eyes...his disjointed neck rolling about as his body was dumped upon the altar...

"Erik, Father Jakob is waiting for your answer…"

_Crack_…

"My son, I asked if you will love and honor this woman," said a far-away voice. All you need to say is '_volo_'…"

Oh God, what was he doing here? How could he possibly force his angel—the one person he had ever dared to love—to become his wife upon his own killing field? Erik leapt to his feet and glanced down at his bride, his eyes wide with disbelief. Christine jumped in shock, searching his face for an explanation. He slowly backed away from her pleading blue eyes, the bile rising in his throat.

"Erik, what—"

He shook his head, fighting the temptation to flee the room. "I can't marry you here, Christine. It—it would be wrong."

A collective sigh of relief sounded about the chapel. Father Jakob patted the perspiration from his forehead, whispering a quick prayer of thanks.

"But why?" she murmured in confusion.

"A priest was murdered here, twenty years ago," he stumbled on wildly. "It was me—I killed him." He turned to the holy man. "I killed Father Cyril—that is my confession. Do what you like—condemn me, hand me over to the Turks. The only reason I speak now is because I can no longer stand to see Christine suffer because of my past. It would be wrong to marry her here, like this." His anguished golden eyes sought hers as tears began to slide down his cheeks.

The priest slowly stepped down from the altar. His words were low and steady as he weighed them carefully in his mind. "Father Cyril committed a great many wrongs, as do we all. In a way, I cannot help but think he may have brought his fate upon himself."

He cautiously approached the skittish man.

"The last time you were in our city, many whispered that you were the devil himself, even before Father Cyril's murder. I rather believe that these kind of rumors are nothing new to you. Do people often say such things?" The priest gazed at the man's haunted face.

"Yes," he replied quietly. "It is nothing unusual."

The father paused in thought. "It is unfortunate that you were the one to murder him, my son. However, I cannot see how it would benefit anyone to turn you over to the Turks; I believe that a greater good could be realized by keeping silent." He sighed haggardly, shaking his head. "No, you have suffered enough for this crime. As for your other crimes, do what you can to make amends. Live a better life than you have in the past, and never forget to help those less fortunate than you."

Silence filled the dark chapel as the priest's words hung in the air. Only the soft pattering of rain broke the tense stillness, reminding the small gathering that there was life outside the walls of the church.

Erik took a shuddery breath and closed his eyes, willing the dreadful scene away. "Christine, I am sorry for keeping my past from you…for forcing you to come here—"

"Erik, I knew about Father Cyril," she quietly interjected. "I have known for a while now."

The man blinked at her in bewilderment. "Then why didn't you say so? Why come here with me, then, if you knew what horrible things I have done in this very room?"

"I was not aware that I had a choice in the matter," she smiled, absently toying with one of the bracelets on her wrist. Then her face became grave.

"My Erik, I cannot give you forgiveness when it must come from somewhere else. You have to find your own peace of mind, outside of your love for me. Perhaps today was a start. Now, shall we continue with the ceremony?"

Erik stared at her in utter amazement, not quite sure of what to do next. He watched as she once more knelt at the altar, beckoning him to her side. He fell to his knees next to her, his eyes pleading with hers. "Angel, you do not have to go through with this," he murmured. "I will teach you how to use the punjab, if that is what you want. If you wish to wait until Paris to marry, we shall do so…that is, if you want to. If you desire to be free again…"

Christine touched a finger to his lips and reached under her _thob_ for the delicate chain. She carefully slipped it over her head and around her hair, then placed it in the man's hand.

He stared at the plain gold ring in his hand, afraid to ask what she intended by it.

"I have had this for a while, as well. It is your wedding band, Erik. See, it matches the one you have given me." She held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger, causing the gold to glisten in the candlelight.

All of a sudden, the true impact of her gift hit him with a force so strong, he knew his heart would shatter to pieces. _She knew! She knew all along that I would refuse her advances tonight; that I would want a wife instead. In fact, she had planned upon it, and had been so confident in the outcome that she had purchased a wedding ring_…

"Christine," he whispered incredulously, "why did you not just say this was what you wanted, as well?"

She laughed lightly. "I have before; you just wouldn't listen to me. And you would have refused to listen this time, as well, choosing what you saw as the safer route." The woman soundly poked him in the chest. "It had to be your idea to marry, Erik—you wanted to win our game, remember? Claim your prize? Well, now you have it."

The corners of Erik's mouth quirked into a smile as he recalled his lament that hopeless night in London…_ Orpheus was not meant to guide Eurydice along the paths of Hades, back to world of the living. Eurydice must be the one to lead the way through the darkness, out of the remains of my shattered life…and she just does not have the strength to do so…_

Christine apparently had reserves of strength he had not given her credit for.

"You have deceived me again, my angel," he murmured, his voice tinged with delight. "To think I actually believed you would throw yourself at me in such a shameless manner. And with a punjab lasso, of all things—quite a dangerous parry, my dear." He lowered his mouth to her ear, his words for her alone. "However, I find that I cannot be angry with such an enticing temptress."

He gently wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and pressed his forehead to hers.

"How can you know me so well, better than I know myself?" he whispered.

"Because I share your soul."

Erik shook his head, awed by the angel across from him. "I have nothing at all to give you, Christine—I am a poor excuse for a husband."

The woman lightly pressed her lips to his, reassuring him of his worth to her.

"Make me a promise, then… I do not want to be _owned _by you, Erik. I want to be loved. Promise to love me."

Erik nodded, choked with emotion. "I love my wife."

Erik pulled the woman into his arms, pressing his face to her neck. She belonged there with him, this missing piece of his soul. "Christine," he cried, "there are so many things I must tell you, before we do this. About Piangi, and Philippe—"

"Shhhhh..." She stroked his hair, comforting her angel as she would a child. "There is nothing you could tell me that can't wait until another day. I know what you have been, and I know what you are. I have already made my decision." Christine gently pulled away from his embrace and cupped his tear-streaked face, her eyes gleaming with joy. At length, she turned back to the forgotten priest. "Father Jakob, could you please continue with the rite?"

The holy man gestured to the ground before the altar and once again opened his liturgy. The couple knelt before the father once more.

"_Dóminus benígne confírmet et benedictiónem suam in vobis implére dignétur. Quod Deus coniúngit, homo non séparet."_

"Amen," Christine whispered, squeezing her angel's fingers.

This time it was Erik's hands that quaked; hers were steady and sure as they listened to the solemn Latin binding them to each other. They placed their rings in the hand of the priest and he blessed them, signing the cross over the small gold bands.

"_Benedícat Dóminus hos ánulos, quos alter álteri traditúri estis in signum amóris et fidelitiátis…"__  
_

Erik moved as if in a trance…not quite a dream, but not fully awake, either. He did not remember slipping the gold ring over his angel's finger, nor her returning his. As the Latin droned on, he simply responded when Christine did, unsure of what he was swearing to. In his mind, he had given his vows already—he had promised to love her, and that was enough.

"_Et vos omnes, qui hic simul adéstis, benedícat omnípotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen…"_

When the last phrase faded into the recesses of the small chapel, he swayed in a stupor for several moments, unaware that the rites had been completed. Christine tugged at his arm, laughing delightedly at his state of unconsciousness.

"Come, let us make it official, my angel."

The priest set the marriage certificate before them, and they each signed their name to it; Christine first, then himself. He held the pen between his fingers for a long while after he had signed, staring at the unfamiliar name…

_Erik Reinard_

_Honest…incorruptible,_ he silently repeated, struggling to make sense of what had just happened to him.

The poor witnesses—who had been wide-eyed observers from the back pew until now—hastily signed the paper and retreated as quickly as possible, anxious to be away from the crazy masked man and his new wife. Father Jakob capped the inkwell and put the certificate into the man's shaking hands.

Erik glanced over it as the impatient woman scooped up her lasso, tucked it under her _jillayeh_, and led him to the door. He stared at the words as if they were written in some newly discovered language, his fingers tracing the lines of print. They came to rest upon Christine's signature next to his.

_Christine Reinard_

_"Oh God_…" he whispered hoarsely, pressing a hand to his chest. His knees began to give way and he collapsed against the wall next to the door, struggling to breathe.

Christine's arms flew about his waist and she fought to hold him upright, but their difference in size made it a losing battle. Her frightened eyes sought his unfocused gold as she shook his shoulders soundly, forcing him to look at her.

"Erik, what is wrong? Tell me what is wrong!"

He closed his eyes and swallowed against his painfully constricted throat, focusing on his breathing. Gradually, his gasps for air began to slow and the fire in his lungs receded, allowing in oxygen once more. He opened his eyes and stared at the worried face before him, a weak smile playing upon his lips.

"I apologize for alarming you, Madame Reinard," he smirked between wheezes. "I am afraid I just realized that I am a married man."

* * *

A/N: 

_The Latin text comes from the __pre-Vatican II Catholic marriage rite that would have been used in the 1880s. Paula74 generously typed the rite in its entirety for me, along with English translations. If you would like to read it, I am posting it to my website. See my profile for the address._

_Thank you for reading! I love looking at your reviews, and take into account all feedback—both good and bad. _


	26. The Angel of Death

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for the everlovin' Papi.

**Side Notes:**

_Thank you to Chat for being such a fantastic beta! I loff you, dear! Thank you also to Musique et Amour (Masque du Nuit) for his help with my violin research, as well as music suggestions. Check out his profile – he's a fantastic author ;)_

_Thank you to all of the Frat!Packers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. Another tough chapter to write, but you motivated me once again! _

**

* * *

The Angel of Death**

A blinding white streak ripped across the sky just above the peaks of the city wall, shredding the bleak horizon into pieces. The answering peal of thunder was deafening; the sound of crackling electricity just above their heads caused their skin to tingle.

Startled, Christine flung herself against the nearest ivy-clad wall in the courtyard and glanced up at the sky. The drenched silk upon her head had long ago been discarded, and was now balled up in her fists, wrung by nervous fingers.

"Perhaps we should return to the convent now, before this drizzle turns into a downpour," she murmured anxiously, biting her lower lip as another flash tore through the gray clouds. "It will be dark by the time we return, as it is."

"Perhaps," Erik whispered, smiling at her edgy nerves.

Good God, had he really just smiled? He could not remember ever genuinely doing so. Usually, the pull of his mangled flesh when he did only reminded him that live corpses should not smile—the effect was too hideous. Yet he did not feel as though he were dead, or wretched, or afflicted in any way that could possibly matter to the angel at his side. He was alive! And she was his living bride—laughing, glowing, free from the burdens that had plagued her for so long.

She was beautiful. She was his.

No, Erik did not want to leave just yet. Not when he felt as though everything in the world, at that moment, was as perfect as it could possibly be. Not when he had at last found peace.

For a good hour, they had leisurely walked the empty streets of Jerusalem, breathing in the rain-soaked air and gliding through the surreal dream that had descended upon them. Neither was in a hurry to face the grounding realities awaiting them at the Notre Dame de Sion— explanations of their whirlwind marriage and Erik's very presence in the city, as well as the drama that would likely ensue. He knew all to well that Christine's sudden marital status would be welcome news to only one person on the fourth floor of the convent. Instead, they had fled the threatening repercussions by aimlessly wandering all the way to the western wall of the old city.

And then there was the question that both were desperate to know the answer to, but afraid to ask—where would they sleep?

A gust of cool wind swept through the small Jaffa Gate courtyard, ruffling the ivy and whipping several stray curls across his wife's face.

_My wife…_

A smile playing upon his lips, he reached down and tucked the curl behind her ear. The anxiety eased from her features and she smiled back, her eyes filled with promises of things to come. He leaned forward and hesitantly touched his lips to hers, tasting the rain that had misted her face during their walk. Or was it remnants of tears that had been shed for him at the church? It did not matter, for both had washed away so much of the pain that had plagued him all of his life.

Dripping ivy shuddered about his head, and for a moment he believed that he was in a sprite's garden—the very creature warm and soft under his hands. He forgot what he was, who he had been…even why he wore a mask. Somewhere above them, thunder grumbled like an angry god at the tarnishing of his sylph, and he punished them by pelting heavy drops of rain.

Then she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, her tongue barely skimming along his bottom lip. Reality flooded through his body, and he awoke from the magic he had been weaving about them; this time, however, truth was so much sweeter than illusion.

_My wife…I am holding my wife, and she is kissing me…_

Another clap of thunder…the heavens opened and rained down their fury upon the lovers, chiding them for not heeding the storm's threat. Christine started at the clamor, accidentally biting down upon her angel's lip. She pulled away in horror and began to apologize profusely.

"Oh, I didn't mean to…I am sorry," she murmured, pressing a finger to his swollen mouth.

It was enough to drive him beyond insanity. Erik wet his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood, then smirked at her skittishness. Hauling her body tightly to his, he lightly brushed his mouth along her jaw and rejoiced in how his angel seemed to mold herself to him.

"I would have enjoyed it even more, Christine, if you _had_ meant to."

The sprite cast him a scandalous look, then grinned wickedly and pressed her lips to his with such unrestrained passion, it left him in no doubt of where he would be sleeping that night: next to her. She wrapped her arms about him, returning each of his overtures with more enthusiasm then he had ever hoped for.

"I ask again, Erik," she whispered breathlessly into his ear, "would you like to return to the convent?"

A low, throaty growl was the only answer he gave. Wrapping his long fingers around her wrist, he pulled her away from the wall and strode swiftly through the courtyard, back to the Christian Quarter Road. They flew along the wet cobblestones, past the old churches and mosques, age-worn walls and sand-colored steeples. Not a soul could be found on the streets; the evening thunderstorms had driven the shopkeepers to their homes early, leaving the market a lifeless thing, save for the two people moving under the green wooden canopies. Every now and then, the man and woman would duck into an alley and kiss each other senselessly, their desire heightened by the liberating rain that washed their faces and drenched their clothing.

They passed the Holy Sepulchre. The great Crusader church frowned upon the lovers' antics, its imposing tower rising to meet the gray clouds; a red-cross flag wildly whipped about the sky like a warning signal to all who dared to brave the storm. Erik and Christine made their way past the church and back to the Via Dolorosa, their breath catching in their throats as the smaller dome of the Notre Dame de Sion came into view. Over their heads, the gale seemed to be gathering its strength for one final show of fury. Lightning streaked the sky, forcing them to cling to the walls as they moved up the narrow street.

Swinging open the heavy doors of the convent, the couple swept into the stone foyer and shut out the gusts of rain. Laughing joyously, Christine took Erik's hand and led him through the dark passages, up the winding staircases and to the fourth floor, their sodden _thobs_ trailing water as they went. The heavy shutters of the open breezeways rattled noisily as the violent wind demanded entry. They had been pulled tight to keep out the downpour, so only the dim light leaking from under the parlor door illuminated the hall. The pair strode past the door and towards the bedrooms, only to freeze in place as yellow light suddenly flooded the breezeway.

"Oh my!" Sister Marie's hand flew to her mouth at the sight of the two nearly drowned people standing in the hallway.

Erik muttered a curse and quickly flipped the hood of his cloak over his face, shielding his mask from the light.

"Madame Garnier, whatever happened?" The nun glanced at the shrouded man, her eyes slitting with distrust. "Your family has been worried sick since the storm began."

Christine gaped at the woman in confusion, her head yanked from the clouds and firmly planted on earth once more. "We—that is, I—wandered too far and became lost. And then it started to rain, and I ran into this man. Rather, I ran into him here, at the convent." She sighed, seeing the disbelief in the woman's face. "He is family," she finished weakly.

Erik shook his head in mute wonder at the incoherent babble that had sprung forth from his angel's mouth. How could a woman who had just managed to trick him into marrying her fail so miserably at telling a simple falsehood?

"M. Khan will explain, Sister. If you will excuse us, we are thoroughly drenched." He nodded to the confused nun and waited until she was out of sight. Grabbing his wife's elbow, he pulled her down the hallway and into her room to save the last of her dignity.

"Brava, my dear," he smirked, watching gleefully as she turned a lovely crimson. "We must send you to the _Assembleé nationale_ when we return to Paris. Your oratory skills are nearly as stellar as your persuasive ones." His eyes followed her about the dimly-lit room as she busied herself by digging through her bureau and pulling out fresh, dry clothing.

"_If_ we return to Paris," she said agitatedly, ignoring his raised eyebrows as she absently waved a pair of white cotton drawers about. "What would you have had me say, Erik? I very well couldn't tell her the truth—she believes that I was widowed only two months ago!"

Erik tried to ignore the unintentional sting her words had caused. He would not let his anger get the better of him tonight.

"Actually, Christine, I am certain that Sister Marie no longer believes you to be entrenched in black despair over your beloved husband's death. I would say that she now thinks quite the opposite." He smiled at her indignant huff. "We were both indiscreet, but never mind—Nadir will come up with some clever explanation, I am sure." Erik strode over to the frazzled woman and caught her hand in his. He raised her ring finger to his lips and kissed it, his gold eyes alight with fire.

"I would rather not worry about it until tomorrow."

"Neither would I," she said softly.

The words hung awkwardly in the air, the momentum of their reckless sprint through the streets dissipated by their abrupt clash with reality. With a deep breath, Erik tentatively reached out to her and grabbed the silk sash tied about her waist, pulling her towards him. His eyes never left hers as his fingers fumbled with the wet knot, struggling to dig his fingers into the tie; it would not loosen.

"_Merde_," he muttered under his breath, ready to draw the dagger from under his cloak and slice through the obstinate fabric.

Christine batted his hands away. "Here, let me." She deftly worked the knot loose and slid the soaked piece of material from her waist, tossing it into the metal tub. Grasping his hands, she brought them to her shoulders and helped him slide the _jillayeh_ from her body. It unceremoniously plopped to the floor in a heap, little rivulets of rainwater streaming from its folds.

_Merde! _Erik's eyes swept up and down Christine's _thob_-clad body. The thin, wet cotton clung to her fiercely; it plastered to her curves, leaving nothing at all to the imagination. He sucked in his breath, unable to tear his gaze away from the rise and fall of her chest, the water running from her tangled hair and down her face and neck...

At length, the woman uncomfortably crossed her arms over her breasts, a blush creeping into her cheeks. She lowered her eyes to the floor in embarrassment.

"Please quit gaping, Erik, and say something—do something."

The masked man shamefully broke his concentrated stare and stepped closer, placing his hands on her waist. "I am sorry to have caused you discomfort, angel. As I informed you earlier, however, I am _merely_ a man. I know that this may be difficult to believe," he teased, his breath warm and enticing upon her ear, "but I would be more than willing to offer you ample proof."

Christine laughed softly against his neck and brushed her fingertips along his shoulder blades. "My, we are confident. Whatever is a lady to do when faced with such a proposition?" Her voice grew low. "However, there is something that I would rather see first, my angel." She reached for his mask.

Erik abruptly leapt away in horrified shock. Clutching his mask to his face, his hand came around Christine's prying fingers with a vice-like grip.

"_What the devil are you doing?"_ he cried.

The woman's face went white. "I-I am sorry, Erik," she stammered. "I didn't want there to be any barriers…I should have asked."

"Yes, you should have. You little fool! Never, _ever_ remove my mask without my permission! Haven't you learned that yet?"

Her lips quivered. "I thought it might be different now," she whispered, hugging her arms tightly about her waist.

Erik took several deep breaths, forcing his heated temper to cool; he could not be angry with her, not tonight. At length, he spoke.

"Christine, please leave me just this one refuge. You may have everything else, I swear." His guilty gold eyes pleaded with her for understanding.

She studied his masked face with a sadness that made him distinctly uneasy. At last, she nodded her consent. "Very well."

They stared at one another, not quite sure how to rekindle the snuffed flames. _No, something does not feel right,_ he judged. _This is too forced, somehow. _He carefully lowered his mouth to her jaw-line, aware that Christine also felt the aloofness. Perhaps it was the mutual understanding that their relationship was about to irreversibly change. Or it could have simply been the knowledge that her entire household was just down the hallway. Whatever imp was conjuring such misgivings, however, was swiftly ruining his well thought-out fantasies.

_Damn, damn, damn! _He wanted to touch her, throw her onto the bed as he had done in his mind countless times. He wanted to—

The doorknob to Jean-Paul's room rattled, and all thoughts of rekindling anything were gone.

"_Maman!_" the toddler cried, swinging the door open with a relentless energy. Erik could see the maid smoothing down the boy's bed in the other room, her back turned to them. His face grew grim.

Christine yelped and dove for the discarded _jillayeh_, quickly clutching it to her front. She struggled to shake out the scrunched-up material to cover her indecency as much as possible.

The boy hurled himself at his mother's legs with euphoric relief, clinging to her ankles as if she had been gone for years.

"Little man," she laughed nervously, "you shall knock _Maman_ over!" She tried to shrug out of the child's grasping hands to no avail.

"Oh Madame de Chagny, is that you?" Papi called from the other room. "Thank heavens! I was just about to send Papa out to search for—"

The maid halted in the doorway, an ashen ring forming about her tight lips. She swayed a bit and grasped the doorframe to keep from sinking to the floor.

"Papi, I can explain—"

"What is he doing here?" she murmured hostilely, ignoring the woman's words. And then her eyes fell upon her mistress' hands as they anxiously wrung the _jillayeh_, the bit of gold upon her ring finger shining in the low light from the oil lamp.

"My God," she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could you do this?"

"Papi—"

The maid covered her distraught eyes, struggling to take in what she had just learned.

"You married him?"

She began to pace about the room, her voice rapidly rising to hysterical proportions as she thought aloud. "Didn't you give a moment's thought to the consequences? You have endangered all of us—not only here, but the household in Paris, as well! Now you are no longer the Comtesse de Chagny—vultures will sweep in and steal Jean-Paul's fortune, I can assure you. Your greedy in-laws, Paris' aristocracy…all for a cruel man that the Comte despised."

She whirled around to face her mistress. "Raoul is probably turning in his grave—"

"Erik," Christine murmured darkly, "please take my son out of the room. I need to speak with my _friend_ alone."

She glanced at her husband, pleading for assistance. He was staring back at the maid with hard, glittering eyes, as if he would rather wring her neck than reason with her.

"Do not speak of Raoul de Chagny, Mademoiselle. Not tonight," he murmured threateningly. Oh, he knew that what she said was true—they _had_ endangered the young Comte's claim. Chagny would have been furious. But to hear it spoken aloud by the meddling maid set his blood boiling.

"Erik—"

His fiery eyes darted to Christine. At length, he nodded and scooped the small child up under his arm, carrying him through the door.

A mighty scream of protest rose up from the boy's lungs. He flailed his arms and legs about, frantically kicking at the masked man, fighting and hollering as if the devil himself had deigned to steal him away.

"NO NO NO NO NO…"

On and on the child cried as Erik strode down the dark hallway, the piercing screams drowning out the deafening thunder.

"NO NO NO…"

The man swung the parlor door open, startling its occupants out of their peaceful discourse. The _avocat_, caretaker, nun, and daroga all leapt to their feet in shock at the sight of the fuming masked man, their eyes sweeping over his drenched clothing and shrieking toddler under his arm.

"Th-that is the man I saw in the hallway—who I was talking about!" Sister Marie cried, pointing her trembling finger at Erik.

M. David looked faint. "How…you are supposed to be in Paris…Where is Christine?"

Norry, of course, sat back and chuckled heartily as if a good joke had just been played on all of them.

Only the Persian studied his friend with a thoughtful eye, taking in his sodden appearance and the glint of gold upon the hand clutching the raging two-year-old. He shook his head at the sheer improbability of the entire situation.

"_Maammmaaan_!" the boy wailed, angrily squirming against the masked man's sturdy grip.

Erik unceremoniously dumped the red-faced Jean-Paul in the daroga's lap. "Keep him with you tonight, Nadir," he brusquely commanded, in no mood for arguments. "I will explain everything tomorrow." And with those parting words, he escaped from the room as suddenly as he had entered, soundly closing the door upon the bewildered residents.

He swept down the shuttered breezeway, his rain-heavy _abaya_ snapping about his ankles. The door to Christine's bedroom was closed; he could hear low, angry voices from within, their words incomprehensible. With a worn sigh, he leaned against the stone wall and waited for the two women to finish their quarreling.

"_He was **your** husband, but I have mourned him more deeply than you **ever** did! I still cry for him, while his wife has already married another! How quickly you have forgotten—" _

"—_How dare you presume to know my heart! One cannot mourn forever, Papi—it makes them brittle, resentful. Perhaps you should examine your own heart!"_ Christine cried, her voice growing shrill.

"_My heart? My heart was always his, unlike yours, Comtesse. But I was a maid—I would **never** have presumed that I was worthy of him. Then he married you—You! A dancer who was no higher in status than I was. And you never loved him as I did…"_

Erik had heard enough. He did not want to listen to the rest of the maid's declaration, or Christine's retort. The three sleepless nights were catching up with him, and he desired nothing more than to peel off his wet clothing and crash onto his pallet, preferably with his wife. He sighed again and turned to go, only to run headlong in the Persian.

"Pardon me, Nadir. I did not hear you."

The daroga chuckled. "That is understandable, given the amount of noise in this normally peaceful hallway." He nodded towards the closed bedroom. "This is not exactly the night you were hoping for, is it, my friend?"

Erik smirked at the Persian. "Ever vigilant, always observant, Nadir. No, it is certainly not how I would have liked certain events to play out. However, I feel that I've already asked more than a lifetime's worth of forbearance from her; after all, she did marry me. A little more will not kill me," he muttered dryly, his words edged with bitterness.

"Try not to be sour, Erik—especially on your wedding night. It really does nothing to improve your likeability." Nadir shook his head as the heated voices rose up again. "I am sure that Christine did not want for this to happen, either. You must understand that this anger and resentment has been building between them for a long time—perhaps even before the Comte's death. And with the close quarters we have kept here at the convent…it simply took a startling event, such as her remarriage, to 'put fire to the keg', so to speak."

"_You **poisoned** us? My God, Papi, how could you?"_

Erik grimaced. Apparently the maid had not told Christine of her involvement in Henri David's plot, as she had promised to do weeks ago in London. The fight would not be over any time soon. Erik put a weary hand on the daroga's shoulder, and turned to leave.

"I am going below to change out of this excuse for proper clothing. If Madame ever emerges from her battle, please inform her that her husband will be along shortly."

"She is battling for you, Erik."

The man halted. "I know, Nadir. I am not completely deaf." He smirked wryly. "I apologize for not inviting you to our nuptials."

"I would have been duly amused, I am sure," the Persian grinned.

"Quite."

OOOOO

Erik ran his hands through his damp hair, smoothing it back into place. Shrugging into his white cotton _thob_, he picked up his discarded _abaya_ and laid it over a pillar, relieved to be in clean, dry clothing once again. He picked up his satchel with the few necessities he had packed and made his way around the cistern chamber to extinguish the candles.

"Leave those, please," said a quiet voice from the doorway. He whirled around to find Christine standing before him, clutching a lantern and violin case, her eyes red-rimmed and sad. She had also shed her sodden _jillayeh_ in exchange for soft, white nightclothes and green dressing gown. Her wet curls were pulled back into a loose braid that had left a damp spot upon her shoulder. She wandered into the chamber as if moving through a thick fog, her eyes glazed and full of uncertainty.

Erik quickly strode over to the woman, taking the lantern from her hand. "I was going to come back to you, angel. You needn't have followed me down here."

She nodded. "I know. Nadir told me. I had to get away from the convent; it has become unbearably stifling."

"Then let this be your sanctuary," he said softly, leading her into the room. The tension in Christine's features eased a bit, and she whispered her thanks. The man glanced about the bare chamber, wishing he had taken the time to find some sort of furnishings for the underground lair. He did not even have a chair or stool to offer her. Rubbing his fingers on the back of his neck, he anxiously studied the far-away girl.

"I trust that you and Mlle. Nitot have resolved your differences?"

Her face began to crumble, and he cursed himself for saying the wrong thing.

"No. I eventually ordered her out of my room, then went to search for you. M. Khan gave me your message, but I decided I didn't want to wait for you." She smiled weakly, her cheerless eyes asking for his forgiveness. It was then that she remembered the violin in her arms. She hugged it briefly, then held it out to the masked man.

"I want you to have this—as a gift. A wedding gift. I thought that perhaps you would like something to play…" She gazed about the room, her eyes locking on a violin case in the corner, next to his compositions. "But I see that you already have a violin," she stumbled on, red creeping up her neck. "Of course you do; you wouldn't let your music go, even without a piano or organ. It was foolish—"

"That?" He waved his hand towards the other violin, dismissing it. "It is nothing of consequence. Thank you, my angel." He carefully took the piece from her hands and studied it, noting the fine wooden body as he smoothed his fingers over the strings. The instrument had a slightly worn look to the finish as if it had been played relentlessly, years on end. He wondered where Christine could have found it…

Then he realized where the violin had come from, and the knowledge touched his heart. "Christine," he murmured, "I cannot take your father's violin." He held it out for her to reclaim.

She smiled softly and pushed it back to him. "When someone gives you a present, Erik, you should graciously take it. Anyway, I want you to have it. It is not as fine as the concert violin he was buried with; this is the one he would play at home when it was just the two of us, and I could not bear to part with it when he died. I had the strings and pegs replaced in Paris not that long ago, because I didn't want it to fall into disrepair." She shrugged lightly. "What use is it to anyone, however, if it is not played?"

Erik stared at the instrument in his hands. He understood the true purpose of her gift, despite her nonchalant tone. She knew his insecurities regarding Raoul and a cherished childhood he had not been a part of—she had seen proof of it just moments ago. The gift of the violin was, in a sense, her way of relinquishing her past for their present, their music.

His eyes swept over her, suddenly taking note of her slumping shoulders and world-worn expression. Her argument with her maid had taken its toll on her spirit, stolen the joy of the evening. He soundly cursed Mlle. Nitot's poisonous tongue; he would have to deal with her tomorrow.

"Would you play for me, Erik? I miss hearing your music." She slipped off her leather sandals and settled onto the thin straw pallet, neatly tucking her ankles under her _thob_ and smoothing her dressing gown over her legs. Her eyes met his wearily, expectantly.

He nodded and turned away from her to tune the violin, breathing in the faint scent of lavender as she pulled the ribbon from her hair and tousled her still damp curls. His insides twisted. He quickly rosined and tightened the bow hair in an effort to focus his train of thought on his music, and away from the subtle curves under her lightweight robes.

Testing his arm's angle to the violin, he tucked it under his chin and ran the bow across the strings to hear its voice. It had a beautiful sound—rich and full. Nodding in approval, Erik played several scales, letting the instrument sing. Music called him to her side once more; he straightened his back and allowed the violin to claim him.

Song after song flowed forth from his spirit. First came the familiar melodies that never ceased to move him…Beethoven's _Concerto in D_…Mozart's _Confutatis_. The notes were achingly sweet; mournful, then spirited. Tearful pleas and thanksgivings; all woven together, an offering to Music itself.

On and on he played, eyes closed, pouring everything he had into the music's nuances. Saint-Saën's _Rondo Capriccioso_…the gypsy-like melody leapt and trilled as his fiery fingers slid over the strings, the bow bouncing up and down in a wild dance. His bow strokes grew fanatical and harsh…the violin sang and soared…his heart clenched tightly until he thought it would surely burst.

The last note hung in the charged air. A sigh caught his ear, echoing the bliss of his own spirit. Erik's eyes flew open; Christine still sat upon the pallet, palms pressed against her chest, her lips parted slightly. Her face was beautiful—glowing with some ethereal light that surely rivaled heaven itself.

"Never has my father's violin sung so. You bring it to life again, Erik." She smiled at him, her eyes clouded with the effects of the music.

Suddenly, he had no desire to play the creations of other men. He wanted his _own _music, his own angel's voice to fill his ears with his songs, to drown him in its rich purity. The masked man sprinted over to the piles of music and rifled through them, pulling out one of the sheets. He tossed it into her startled lap and knelt behind her.

"Erik, what—"

"I play and you sing, just as we have countless times," he whispered, his face just inches from hers. "It is in Arabic, so some of the words should be familiar by now. I wrote this after I saw you on the roof one afternoon, peering out over the city—the _adhan_ was echoing from the mosques, and you were listening to it. You were lovely." He cleared his throat. "I will give you two measures…"

The man hunched over the violin, once more tucking it under his chin.

She nodded and straightened her spine, allowing the air to spin up and out from her throat. Her tone had not improved since the last time she had sung, of course. Erik, however, did not care. Tonight, he was not listening to her voice with the ear of a teacher. He listened as a lover. His angel sang his music as he knew she would—with passion and grace. The golden tones swept over his body and through his soul.

"_Habebe…Ya albe…Ya Nour A'ainy…"_

He played along with her, but as her voice became more familiar with the melody, he set the instrument aside. His hands skimmed around her waist and up along her rib cage, feeling every breath of air as she sang. Her voice faltered; he hurriedly picked up the words and joined her, their voices tangling in a beautiful, exotic duet.

"_Ya roughy…"_

Erik's voice rose with hers…the dark, rich tenor weaving its powerful web over her mind. Their music made him bold, driving him to take liberties with her that he would not normally dare to do. He toyed with the ribbons of her nightgown and pulled them loose, freeing her soft skin to his touch. His fingers slid beneath the delicate cotton; she gasped, her voice catching in her throat. Yet he sang on, his tone enticing and low.

"_Habebe…Ya albe…Ya Nour A'ainy… Ya roughy…"_

"Why have you stopped singing, Christine?" he asked quietly.

The woman's head fell back against his shoulder. "Erik, your music, everything…you make me feel _alive_." Her voice broke. "I have not felt alive in a long time." She trembled lightly. "What does it mean—the Arabic?"

The masked man smiled traced a thin finger along her throat. "_Habebe, Ya albe, Ya Nour A'ainy, Ya roughy?_ The singer is a woman, speaking to the man she loves."

Erik stood up, pulling his wife with him. He gathered the light material of her nightgown in his hands. Pausing for a moment, his eyes locked upon hers, seeking her approval. She nodded. He slid the white cotton from her small frame and drew her to him.

"It means _Beloved…my heart…light of my eyes…my soul_."

Christine flung her arms around his neck, overcome.

Her body was perfect… soft, warm, and beautifully flawed in ways that made her all the more real to his touch. Every single inch of her was at once familiar and foreign. His angel was a song that he had listened to countless times, memorizing each slide and slur until he could hear the music over and over in his mind. And yet he had never played. How long had he ached to spread his fingers over her bare skin, drawing forth songs from her body as he did from his ivory keys? For years, he had yearned to discover the scores of music that lay hidden behind her voice.

He was a musician greedy to learn her. He wanted to make her cry and laugh. He wanted to make love to her, and gaze upon her face as her eyes grew dark with hunger for him—him alone. No Vicomte, no hideous face—only Erik.

And yes, her eyes did deepen to a smoldering blue as his hands reverently skimmed over her curves and creases…her hips, breasts, shoulders, into her curls. He lifted the dark masses away from her neck and buried his face there, feeling the rapid pulse of her heart upon his lips.

He had seen her best—oh, how he seen her from his hideaway in box five, radiant upon the stage, her song magnificent as it rose above the opera house's lavish gilding. He had triumphed as the bright-plumed ladies of the audience pressed fluttery hands to their bosoms and elegant men blinked back threatening tears, so moved were they by her loveliness. He saw Christine, languid and content in a London nursery, clutching her sleeping son in her arms, gently blowing wispy curls from his face. She had rested her cheek upon the boy's head and softly sighed, the sound rivaling that of her arias…

He laced his fingers through hers, falling to his knees as his angel pulled him down with her onto their makeshift bed. Her hands skimmed up his legs and torso, lifting the cotton _thob _from his body. Tossing it aside, she pressed her mouth to his naked flesh and tenderly kissed each of the criss-crossed marks upon his skin, trying to heal wounds that had long ago scarred. He shuddered violently.

…And he had also seen her worst—cowering in a corner with a white mask in her hand, her arms flung protectively over her head as if she thought her teacher would strike out fiercely for her impertinence or tears or whatever carelessness that compelled her to hide. She would leave him with the coldness of her fragile withdrawal…her deception and weakness driving him mad.

This was his Christine—that perfect music that had been forever out of reach, his obsession to possess her nearly killing him.

Her song was all around him…encompassing his heart, shooting every nerve in his body to dizzying heights. The sound of her shallow breathing …the light rustle of the straw pallet as she shifted beneath him…white, balletic limbs wrapping around him, brushing against his skin. Every single timbre was woven into the intricate score they were composing; the excruciating pounding of their hearts lent their notes an exotic tempo, making them mere slaves to the blood resonating in their veins.

Her fingers suddenly curled around his mask. Panicked, Erik swiftly turned his face away. She caught it and brought his eyes back to hers.

"Christine—"

"Erik, please," she gasped, her voice thin with despair. "I want to see my husband's face—I want to see your face!"

He groaned in anguish, her urgent plea ripping him in two. How could he refuse her, when she clung to him with such pure, innocent trust? She concealed nothing—everything she had, she was giving to him. Why should he not do the same? With a wretched sob, he grabbed her hand and placed it on the thin white mask, guiding her fingers around the edge and helping her to slip it off. She carefully laid it aside and turned back to him, her eyes growing wide as she observed the mass of gnarled flesh that somewhat resembled a face.

Erik was glad for the near darkness of the chamber, the one mask left to him. He felt his heart fall to the pit of his stomach as her clear eyes glazed over with some unreadable expression—fear or shock—he did not know which. He began to pull away from her, but she held him fast in her arms. Christine closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them again, the look had vanished. A piercing, all-consuming love filled the blue depths—so powerful, it shook him to his very core.

Exposed and vulnerable, he could only hold his breath as she tenderly pressed her hand to his ravaged features, caressing the crags and twists that stretched across the entire right side of his face. And then her mouth fervently traced the paths her fingers had laid upon his sensitive skin, banishing the sorrow from his stricken soul with her gentle touch.

_The quiet waters that you seek…_

She had looked upon his face—his grisly, ghastly face that drove men to madness. Somehow, his angel had found him, alone and damned, and had lifted him from the very bowels of Hades. This creature with a kind spirit and glorious song—he would gladly die the exquisite death she offered—purge his bitterness and hatred within the fire of her absolution.

"My husband…"

Erik buried his face in the warmth of her embrace as her words echoed upon his ear, his heart shattering all over again for want of her…his living soul's home shore. She cried out as they became one; he pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring his own motif into her ear.

"My soul…Christine…"

He watched her face contort beautifully…her eyelids squeezed shut, then flew open again as he moved within her. Her mouth widened in a mute cry; he enveloped it with his own and breathed life into her, even as death wrapped shadowy tendrils around their forms and called them to dance. The crescendo of their music slowly drove them upward, higher and higher as chord after merciless chord crashed upon their souls with waves of fury.

"Do not leave me alone, Erik—"

"Never," he vowed, his voice harsh and ragged.

"I shall die!" she sobbed, tears of release streaming from her blue eyes and down the sides of her face.

He clasped her hand, letting their rapturous elegy carry him to the very edge of oblivion.

"Then I shall die with you."

OOOOO

Somewhere in the distance, Erik heard the quiet lapping of water. _My lake…Lake Averne…the dark waters of my home, my prison. I shall die on its shores, alone and resigned, with only my beautiful dreams to bid me farewell. _

_Such dreams, such dreams…_

He was cold…so cold. And stiff, like a corpse. Perhaps he was already dead; yet he could feel the air on his face, so he was not in his coffin. Complete and utter darkness enveloped him…he struggled under the pressure upon his chest. His hands reached down to push away the weight, and came upon a mass of soft curls and icy skin.

Christine quietly moaned in protest of the sudden jostling.

_The dream…not a dream. Not Lake Averne…the cistern. And this is my wife, her face resting upon my body. _

His head fell back against the hard pallet in quiet ecstasy. How often does one wake from a reality to find it was only a dream, and that the dream is, in fact, reality?

Christine groaned again and shifted against the hard ground, her limbs undoubtedly as sore as his. His arms came around her shoulders, trying to infuse her with the small bit of warmth he could offer. The air about them truly was frigid—more so than past nights. The early spring storms had once more ushered in the chill of February and replenished the cistern with fresh, cold rainwater.

"NO!"

All of sudden, she loosed a shriek and leapt away from his embrace, wildly pushing back from his body. Erik heard her scramble up from the pallet, then fall to the ground as her foot tangled in one of the blankets. He reached out for her in the darkness and seized her shoulders, holding her tightly to keep her from stumbling blindly about the chamber.

"Christine, it was a dream—whatever it was, it wasn't real!" He felt her tense as awareness sank into her mind. And then she fell against him, burying her face in his chest to muffle her sobs. It was no surprise that she had had a nightmare; the previous day had taken an emotional toll on both of them. For all he knew, his vicious rage could have haunted her sleep.

He brushed the hair from her damp face. "Will you tell me?"

She paused for a moment then shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.

Deciding not to push her confidence, Erik held her for a long time in silence.

At length he spoke, his voice smooth and beautiful. "There is an old legend about a woman who was on her deathbed. She was not ready to leave; she had a good husband whom she loved very much, and many children. All encouraged her to say the _shema_ prayer: a prayer to release her soul from pain so death could take her. But she refused to utter the words, because she did not want to die. Then the Angel of Death himself came to her and asked her to whisper her deathbed prayer so he could claim her spirit. Again, she refused. 'Why should I do so? I am afraid to go with you, and leave behind all that I know.' So the Angel of Death let her live. She became strong again and eventually left her deathbed to be with her family, going about her daily life. She was always mindful never to say the _shema_ prayer, lest the Angel should return to claim her soul."

Erik felt the tension begin to leave his wife's muscles and she melted against him, drawn into his story.

"The Angel of Death, however, is a wily and tricky fellow. Years later, the woman's child was on his deathbed. She sat next to him in grief, trying her best to ease his pain. 'Mother,' the boy whispered, 'will you say the prayer with me?' Tears streaming down her cheeks, she nodded and guided her son through the _shema_ prayer. When they were finished, the Angel of Death leapt up from beneath the bed and snatched both of their souls."

Christine sat up and peered at him, trying in vain to read his face in the dark. "Erik…"

"Christine, have I somehow forced you into this marriage? I cannot help but think that you married me out of necessity for Jean-Paul, or because you felt it your duty to rescue me in some way. If I have, we can correct it tomorrow. Father Jakob need never know about tonight—he could annul it, saying that you were coerced—"

She put her fingers to his lips to silence the stream of insecurities. "You seem to have forgotten, angel, that _I_ tricked _you_ into marrying me. Therefore, _I_ should be the one to ask if you were coerced." Smiling, she rested her head over his heart and listened to the steady beating, drawing comfort from his presence. After a moment, she began to speak again, her words soft and low.

"I dreamt that I was underground, in a coffin. The walls and lid of the casket were made of glass, so I could see everything about my grave: the dirt surrounding me, bugs and animals burrowing through the ground…" She released a deep, shuddery breath. "Next to my coffin was another, also made of glass. It was Raoul's. He was in the same fine clothing we had buried him in, his blonde hair smoothed back and his hands resting against his chest. His face was pale and dead, but peaceful—as if he were only sleeping."

Her arms tightened about her husband's waist. "As I watched him, however, his eyelids opened and he turned his face to me. His eyes! Oh Erik, his eyes were only black, empty holes, staring at me with a frightful nothingness. Then he smiled at me and spoke, but his mouth did not open. 'Death is but an illusion'; that is what he whispered. I wish I knew what it meant, but..."

Erik held her tightly, wishing with all his might he could answer her questions and drive her fear away. He silently cursed Raoul de Chagny for worming his way into her mind, on a night when her dreams should have been of her new husband. At long last, he felt her relax once more, so he released her and went in search of his mask and robe. Slipping the porcelain over his ghastly features, he tossed Christine's dressing gown to her and lit the lantern. The chamber flooded with yellow light.

"Where are you going?" she asked timidly.

Erik touched a finger to her drawn, anxious face. "It is too cold for you down here—I am taking you home."

The worried glint in her eyes softened. "I _am_ home, my angel." She grasped his palm and tenderly kissed it, her lips surprisingly warm upon his skin. "Stay with me upstairs?"

"Do you want me to?"

She nodded. "I am sure that the others already know by now. Besides, there would be nothing improper in it; you are, after all, my husband." The creature cast him a mischievous grin. "We must be sure to lock the door to my son's room this time, however. I would rather not have an encore of yesterday's performance."

Erik's eyebrows quirked up in amusement, relieved that her fear seemed to have dissipated. "Neither would I—very wise, my angel." He gathered up his scattered music and the violin case, then moved about the room to ensure all was in order. Slinging his satchel over his shoulder, he grabbed her hand and led her from the dank cistern chamber.

"Come with me, oh, my living bride," he exclaimed with mock reverence, a smile teasing his lips. "Your marriage bed grows cold without you."

_

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A/N: I'll be posting a map of old city Jerusalem to my website. See my profile for the address._

_Thank you for reading! I love looking at your reviews, and take into account all feedback—both good and bad. _


	27. An Idyllic Existence

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for Ze'ev Borochov. He's mine…mine…

**Side Notes:**

_Thank you so much to Chat and Random for betaing! Their own work can be found here at FFN: Chat is under "Chatastic", and Random is under "Random-Battlecry". They are both wonderfully witty authoresses, take a look._

_Squishmich – kick You're a darlin' monkey :) Thanks for reading._

_Phantomy-cookies (la fantomie-biscuits, ha!) – you are evil, I say, evil. I am holding to that, even after chatting with you mwah I couldn't find a way to work a "cookies" cameo in, so consider yourself the sweetbread that was consumed for breakfast. You are officially the first Frat!Packer to be eaten in the story. _

_Mom and Dad – Happy Anniversary! Here's to hoping you're out on the town instead of reading this._

_I sense that some of the readers are concerned about various circumstances ruining our dear couple's happiness. Should you be? My lips are sealed. Read on, read on._

_Thank you to all of the Frat!Packers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement, and hanging in there through the extra-long wait for another chapter. This writer is vacationed and cracking her knuckles again! _

**

* * *

An Idyllic Existence**

Madame Reinard stretched indulgently in her bed, the extra hour's sleep doing wonders for her countenance. The golden light of Jerusalem spilled through her bedroom windows and drove away the last few clouds of the previous night's storms.

Erik had risen at dawn when the _adhan_ had sounded, quietly slipping from her embrace and replacing his clothing before the rest of the household made their way to the roof. In her half-conscious state, she had felt his eyes upon her for a long while, then heard him move about the room as quietly as possible before gently shutting the door.

Christine wondered if her new husband had even slept after their early morning return to her bedroom from the underground cistern. Both had been loath to waste hours dreaming, when there was so much to discover in their newfound familiarity. They made love again, and afterwards, fell into hushed conversation, reminiscing over their lives at the opera—the various productions, characters, and performers. The young singer found it rather odd and exhilarating to be discussing Wagner's operas while lying naked in a man's embrace. And yet, with Erik, it seemed perfectly natural.

He had stroked her back while passionately asserting that the Paris debut of _Tannhäuser_ had been a fiasco in every sense of the word; Wagner had been foolish; the opera was simply too grandiose a work to be produced upon the incompetent _Rue Lepeletier_ stage.

Pressing her mouth to his neck, she had gently reminded him that the work itself was beautiful; it was not Wagner's fault that the opera house had lacked the resources and enthusiasm to realize the vision that was _Tannhäuser._

Erik had scoffed at her kind support of the composer, retorting that ultimately, it had rested upon Wagner's shoulders to ensure that his work was staged properly. He could have done a much better job, he declared. Besides, he smirked while burying his fingers in her curls, she had been an infant when the opera premiered, and could hardly be expected to offer a knowledgeable opinion on the matter.

And she had playfully reminded him that he was living in Persia at the time of _Tannhäuser_'s debut, and had not seen it, either. Furthermore, the fact that he had been of an age to form such firm opinions when the "Wagner disaster" occurred, implied that he was old enough to be her father.

Her teacher mumbled something incoherent about the beast he had created, kissing her soundly for her impertinence.

Christine certainly never had any such discussions with Raoul; usually, afterwards, they had found their respective sides and had drifted off to sleep. Their bed had been pleasant enough, as had their conversation. And while it was unkind to make comparisons between her first husband and her second, she could not help but notice the marked difference.

Marriage to Erik would be anything but conventional—she knew as much, already. Who else but her angel would use his music to seduce her mind before he even touched her body? Oh, how his voice of velvet had wrapped around her like a warm cloak, pulling her into the frightful comfort of its beauty. When he sang, even quietly as he had last night, everything that was dark and powerful had possessed her …

"_Erik," she had murmured, "do you miss it, ever?"_

"_Miss what?" _

"_The opera house. Are you sad to have left it behind?"_

_He chuckled softly. "Which should I miss more, my angel—La Carlotta's incessant shrieking, or those two buffoons that call themselves managers, groveling at her feet?" His laughter stilled as he seriously thought over her question. _

"_I suppose I regret leaving behind the security of my lair. My organ, of course…"_

"_The Persian monkey?" she smiled against his chest._

"_Ah yes," he exclaimed. "The poor fellow is most diligently awaiting my return, I am sure." He kissed her temple. "Truthfully, Christine, I lost interest in the opera house after you left. You were, are, my music. I am not quite sure when the two became inextricably entwined, but I could never be content in the solitary life I had lead before you set foot in the _Opéra Populaire_. Resigned, perhaps, but never content." _

_He paused in reflection. _

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on," _he spoke quietly, as if to himself. _"Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it…_do you remember that proverb, from the _Rubaiyat_?"_

_Christine nodded. "You said it means that the past cannot be erased, no matter how hard we wish for it." She sighed contentedly. "I find, though, that I no longer wish to erase the past. I have regrets… the fear, jealousy, pain that we all suffered. However, they have brought me to you, to this point."_

"_Christine," he replied solemnly, "there were many tragic coincidences that brought us to this point. It would have been better to have found each other under different circumstances."_

"_Yes," she whispered. An image of Raoul's wasted, pain-ridden face flashed before her. She shook it away. "I do not believe in coincidences, though, Erik. For hope to exist, something good must come from the bad."_

_Her teacher sighed indulgently, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I had forgotten how refreshing your young ideals could be, Christine. Yes, hope is a blessed thing, for those who have it. For those who do not, life is a curse."_

"_You do not have it?" She sat up, her eyes searching his._

_He reassuringly touched a finger to her face, memorizing every fine distinction._

"_I do now…"_

OOOOO

"Maaammmaaan!"

Jean-Paul's frantic cry broke into her reverie. Leaping from her bed, the mother quickly wrapped her dressing gown tightly about her, cinching the tie at her waist. She pushed back the bolt to her child's door and crouched down to his level, letting the sobbing boy fall into her open arms.

"Whatever is the matter, _mon petit_? Did you have a bad dream?" She gently stroked his silky curls, pressing her lips to the top of his head.

The boy stuck his fingers in his mouth and peered up at his entire world through watery eyes. He waggled his head and buried his wet, tearful face between her breasts.

"Ma-a-man," he hiccupped, clutching his mother's robe as if she would vanish into thin air.

Christine smiled and scooped up her child, pacing back and forth until his wails were reduced to breathless hitches. If anyone upon the fourth floor had still been asleep, they would most likely be venturing from their rooms now, after her son's cries of despair.

"Would you like to go outside for breakfast, little man? The sisters will have sweet breads for you this morning, as well as fig preserves. And Papa is here…"

_I hope_, she silently added as the boy suddenly lost interest in her comforting arms and toddled towards the door. She hurriedly stepped into her tiny bathroom and slipped on her undergarments, plain gray dress and slippers, then checked her appearance in the small square mirror to make certain that her hair was not a mass of tangles. Smoothing a hand over the curls and tying them back with a ribbon, she nervously smiled at her reflection, took her boy's hand, and led him onto the roof.

The sky was magnificent; still a rosy hue in the early hours of morning. The sun had just crested over the Mount of Olives and bathed the old city in its gentle golden glow, casting long shadows across the veranda.

Nadir and Norry were already up as well, engaged in quiet conversation over Arab coffee and flatbreads. And Erik was there, she saw with relief. He stood at the far corner of the roof with the air of a king surveying his land; back straight and dignified, hands clasped behind him, dark head held high. His very demeanor exuded a calm elegance that caused Christine's breath to catch.

He had not seen her yet. She watched, spellbound, as he closed his eyes and turned his masked face to the sun, drawing strength from its rays.

_How long has it been since he has simply basked in the light of day?_ the woman thought sadly. She doubted that he had ever taken comfort in its warmth, before; as long as she had known her angel, he had relentlessly shunned it with a hard cruelty that usually left both of them cold. This morning, however…

This morning, there was nothing cruel in the peaceful lines of his face.

Jean-Paul pulled his tiny hand from his mother's grip and toddled over to the man. With a small cry, he grabbed a fist-full of Erik's cotton _thob_ and tugged, demanding complete attention.

"Papa!"

The masked man's eyes flew to the child at his side, his spine stiffening in shock.

Christine anxiously bit her lip, remembering belatedly that Erik did not yet know of her decision to delay telling Jean-Paul the truth. She could only pray that it wouldn't matter, now that they were married.

"Papa! Biscuit, _sil' plais_. "

Not knowing what else to do, "Papa" scooped up the boy and set him in a chair next to Nadir. Glancing over the foods at the table, he placed a few breakfast items on a plate for the boy, guessing at what he might like.

"There are no biscuits, Jean-Paul—not for breakfast. Will you eat these, instead?"

The child bobbed his head enthusiastically, anxious to please the man.

Christine covered the smile upon her lips as her son poked at the slimy boiled egg, then passed it by for the large piece of honeyed flatbread. He studied it in confusion, trying to decide how best to eat the thing. At last, he picked it up between his tiny fingers and struggled to stuff it into his mouth, smearing honey across his cheeks as he did so.

Erik grimaced as he watched the boy eat and handed him a cloth napkin to wipe his face. Jean-Paul stared at it, then went back to his sweetbread.

"You have to tear the bread into smaller pieces," the mother explained, stepping away from the doorframe. "He still needs help with certain foods."

Her husband whirled around and spotted her hovering just behind him. In an instant, the familiar etches of resentment settled into his features once more; he opened his mouth to speak, and Christine braced herself for his sharp tongue. Instead, however, he shook his head and strode to her side, firmly grasped her hand.

"We will discuss this 'Papa' situation later, my angel," he murmured, his soft words laced with an unmistakable tone of authority.

A sudden burst of laughter from the two men conversing at the table broke through the tension. Both peered at the uneasy masked man and small boy with alacrity, struggling to hide the grins spreading across their faces. She felt Erik's hand tighten upon hers.

"What is the matter, my friend? In your hurry to acquire a wife yesterday, did you forget that you were also acquiring a son?" the Persian called, his eyes twinkling amusedly. "You must learn these things sometime, if you are to be a Papa."

Norry slapped his knee heartily. "I'd say by his expression, it clean slipped his mind—the mess he was gettin' himself into." He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the masked man again, oblivious to the new husband's clenched jaw. "You watch these two, Monsieur—they are a handful, to be sure! This little scamp, especially. The Comtesse, now—"

"She is no longer a Comtesse!" Erik hissed, his eyes glittering with anger. "And I am not that child's—"

"Erik!"

Christine quickly glanced at Jean-Paul to see if he had heard the man's angry words. Thankfully, he was too engrossed in sliding the boiled egg about his plate to pay any attention to the conversation. She shot her husband an accusatory look, and motioned for him to follow her to their bedroom.

He crossed his arms and straightened to his full, imposing height, returning her glare with one that implied he would not be going anywhere. A well-known smirk settled upon his mouth, and Christine had to suppress the urge to whirl away in childish frustration. Before she had the chance to, however, a desperate cry rang through the breezeway.

"You unholy bastard!"

Henri David stumbled onto the roof, waving a condemning finger at the masked man. His clothing and hair were uncharacteristically rumpled; fine stubble covered his cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot and darkly circled. He wore the same _libas_ with his expensive dress shoes, but the hem of the left leg was tucked into the heel of his shoe, lending his overall look an air of insanity.

Erik watched the man approach with glittering eyes.

"You! You roped my door shut last night, then stole Christine away! What did you do to her, you son-of-a-bitch?"

"Remember Jean-Paul," Christine hissed, though neither man heeded her. Erik took a step back from the lawyer, holding up his hands in mock penitence. She had to give him credit for stifling his anger—she saw his jaw grinding harshly, though the others did not.

"While I would have relished such an action, Monsieur," Erik sneered, his face darkening, "I can assure you that I did not lock you in your room. And as for Madame—she was a most willing accomplice last night."

The _avocat_ growled and started towards the man, but then thought twice about it, his eyes filling with fear. It was obvious he was remembering his time spent in the London cellar. He glanced towards Christine as if hoping she would back him in some way or another, or at least deny the man's claim.

The Persian cleared his throat. "I believe there may be some confusion on your part, M. David," he said solemnly. "I know that my friend would seem to be the most likely culprit for your, ah, detention last night. However, you must not blame him—_I_ was the one that roped your door shut."

All eyes immediately turned to the daroga in surprise. He cleared his throat again, amused by the shock that suffused his masked friend's features.

"Roped?" Christine asked in confusion.

"The doors open out," the daroga explained. "Just a thin rope looped several times around the handle and the breezeway railing, next to his room." He turned back to the lawyer. "I apologize for it, but I felt it was indeed necessary, after your unfortunate disclosure to the sister in your rather panicked state." Nadir shrugged. "It was better to keep you tucked away, than to have you face the wrath of my friend."

Henri shivered delicately, his eyes wide with fright. "You locked me away because of what I told the sisters? Someone had to explain his presence here, and _you_ seemed to be in no hurry." He turned to Christine, weakly holding out his hands. "I was trying to save your reputation – I swear, that was all I intended to do. I didn't even know that you had married this…_monster_, until Papi came running into the parlor, crying! Thank goodness Sister Marie had left by then, or we would all be sunk—"

"Enough!" Erik bellowed, effectively silencing the trembling _avocat_. His fist clenched and unclenched at his side, fingers itching for his punjab lasso. He turned cold eyes upon the lawyer, his words now threateningly low.

"Pray, Monsieur," he spat, "spare us your tirade and come to the point. What exactly did you tell Sister Marie?"

M. David choked in fear, his adam's apple moving up and down his dry throat. The air was oppressively thick as he searched the faces about him for some sort of aid, but no one dared to rise to the occasion.

"Tell him, Monsieur," the Persian said quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.

"I—I told the sisters you were her uncle—my uncle. They prepared a room for you down the hall, just to the right. I had to tell them something, so M. Nitot's younger bro—"

With a great roar, Erik launched himself at the quaking lawyer before he had a chance to escape, and sent him sprawling across the stone floor at Christine's feet. The woman leapt away in surprise, making a beeline for her child.

Norry motioned to the worried mother to stay put. "It's gettin' late, it is," the old caretaker exclaimed over the shouts, leaping up from his chair. "Not used to piddlin' around in the mornin'. I'd best be off to see to my girlie at the orphanage." Never one to stick his nose in other's business, he picked up the captivated two-year-old and winked at a concerned Christine, making as hasty a retreat as possible.

The masked man wrapped his fingers around Henri's neck, the exposed side of his face turning red with anger.

"You have been a bane to me for a good many weeks, Monsieur!" he hissed through bared teeth. "I should have killed you in London—"

"Please," the _avocat_ croaked, "air! Christine—"

The woman stepped forward in worry, reaching out hesitantly to her fallen friend. A firm hand at her elbow stilled her, and she glanced up at the Persian in bewilderment.

He shook his head. "This is between your husband and M. David."

She looked at him as if her were mad. "But Erik could kill him…this isn't the first time they have fought each other."

"I know." The daroga sighed, and called to his friend. "Erik! Be careful not to strangle the life out of the boy. I would hate to have to find a different convent."

The masked man abruptly looked up at the sound of his name, and nodded.

M. David, taking advantage of his opponent's brief lapse in attention, let loose a shriek and swung out from under his attacker's grip, soundly connecting his fist with the man's nose and mask. A brittle cracking noise filled their ears, and Christine saw with horror that a small portion of her husband's porcelain mask had broken away.

Nadir winced. "That will not be pleasant tomorrow," he murmured. "Thank goodness he has a collection of those things with him. Perhaps next time he chooses to fight with Henri David, he should wear a leather one, instead—it is sturdier."

"This is not amusing, M. Khan," she snapped.

He smiled and wrapped a reassuring arm around the skittish woman's shoulders. "This doesn't bode well for your _avocat_, Madame. Do not worry about Erik. Let them fight—it will be better this way, believe me."

Christine's face paled as blood gushed from her angel's mottled nose. It was obviously broken. She wrung her hands in helpless frustration, every cell in her body calling for her to run to his side and help him from the ground. _My poor Erik—_

The lawyerstared at the masked man, his limbs trembling in terror. "My God! Y-your nose—half of it—what is wrong with—Christine, what in hell have you married?"

Her "poor" Erik hurled his shoulder against the _avocat_ to throw him off balance and brutally returned the favor upon his nose. Grabbing the cloth of his rival's _abaya_, he shoved him against the stone roof edge, fighting to ignore the fire that shot through his face and stung his eyes.

"Hell? Precisely, Monsieur! Leave her be, or I swear I will make your face resemble mine!" he cried, his wild eyes inches from the quaking lawyer's. "She is MY wife, you damned boy—Mine! Not yours!" He released the man in disgust.

M. David fell against the wall in pain and covered his nose with his hands, blood seeping through his fingers. He watched as the fuming man grabbed Christine's wrist and escaped down the hallway to freedom. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let his head fall back in despair.

The Persian hovered above him, frown lines etched upon his brow. Holding out a hand to the defeated _avocat_, he carefully helped him to his feet.

"You would think that after being bested four times by this man, Monsieur, you would learn not to provoke him so."

Henri pinched his nose to ease the blood-flow. "I only spoke the truth, M. Khan. He _is_ a monster—did you see his nose?" He whimpered nasally. "Why on earth did she choose him?"

The daroga took the man's elbow and helped him down the hallway, fighting the impulse to let him fall back to the ground. "I would tell you why, M. David, but you already know. The truth has been before you since your arrival in London, yet you have refused to see it. Speaking the words aloud would not make any difference."

"I know," the young man sighed, falling into his bed with a weariness of body and soul. "I saw it when she was in the cellar, that night. I saw it aboard the _H.M.S. Inflexible_, when she discovered he had followed us. Every day, she looked for him from the rooftop, in the streets…"

He watched the Persian dampen a towel; gratefully taking it from his hands, he dabbed it to his tender nose.

"I have loved her since Raoul brought her to her first dinner party. But I would never, ever—" He shook his head, choked. "I was waiting for her to finish grieving for her husband. But then that devil swooped in like a vulture…"

His words fell away, the pain in his face too great to continue.

Nadir studied the man—a boy, really, in many ways. "I imagine it would be hard to see someone you care for pine after another, day after day. The fact is, though, that Christine has not chosen you. If you care for her, you will abide by her wishes."

Henri said nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a few stray tears trickling down his face.

The daroga was not sure if they were tears of physical pain, or simply tears of turmoil. Whichever they were, it was obvious that the man wished to be left alone. Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the empty hallway to leave the man in peace. An amusing thought struck him, and he turned back on impulse, a grin spreading across his face.

"Indulge me in one more question, M. David, then I shall let you be," he said. "What possessed you to tell Sister Marie that Erik was Christine's uncle?"

The _avocat_ simpered under the bloody towel, then grimaced as his nose throbbed even harder. "At the time, it was the only way I could think of to get even with him for coming back. Of course, Papi's disclosure quickly stifled any brief triumph I received from it. Still, it has brought me some small amount of satisfaction."

"I could not have invented anything better, myself." Nadir chuckled. "The fact that the entire convent now believes Christine's uncle has come to visit his nieces and nephew should be sweet enough revenge for you. Let it end there, M. David."

"I shall think on it," Henri murmured, and turned his face away from the Persian.

OOOOO

Christine glared at the infirm man bustling about the small room.

Erik held a wad of cloth to his nose with one hand; with the other, he rifled through his satchel and pulled out a small jar of ointment and another, sturdier, mask. Ignoring the daggers she was shooting at him, he ducked around her angry form and strode into the bathroom, pulling the curtain closed.

The woman had clearly seen that the porcelain upon his face had almost cracked completely through, most likely cutting him in several places where it had shattered about his nose. Fortunately, upon immediate inspection, he ascertained that his nose had not been broken—the mask had halted the blow, somewhat. _He is still going to have a horribly swollen mess on his hands,_ she thought.

"Christine, isn't there something else you could be doing, besides burning holes through the curtain with your heated looks? If you must have someone to tend to, you could see to your fool of an _avocat_; I am quite certain I broke his nose."

Christine winced, remembering the sickening snap she had heard when Erik's fist connected with Henri's perfect visage. She shook her head. He was obviously trying to get rid of her, while he tended to his face alone; Christine knew as much. The man was as stubborn as anything when it came to his face.

"The least you could do is let me help you," she muttered, plopping down upon the bed and tucking her knees up under her chin. "I _have_ seen your face, before, after all. Last night, for that matter—you recall it, perchance?"

The only response was the sound of sloshing water and a hiss of pain.

"If nothing else, you could tell me what has been bothering you since early this morning," she huffed indignantly.

Erik poked his head around the curtain, his face covered by a wet towel. "I cannot say, Christine. Perhaps it is the fact that my mask was pounded into what precious little nose I have," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or it could be that you promised to tell your son I wasn't his father, and never did so. Maybe I am troubled because I found out that I have a make-believe family. Now I cannot even stay with my wife at night, because the entire gaggle of nuns believes that I am your uncle!"

The woman stifled a laugh. "My dear Uncle Hades, your Persephone shall not turn you away from her door, I assure you!"

Erik lifted the bloody towel just barely and peered at her from its shadows. Sighing, he dropped it back into place and ducked behind the curtain again. "While the ancient Greeks were not averse to such…goings-on, my wife, I am sure that the sisters of Notre Dame de Sion might find offense in such a union. There really is nothing to be done about it."

"Well, we could tell Sister Marie the truth, I suppose."

"No! Say nothing, Christine. Not a word, do you hear?"

"But Erik, it is just a simple—"

"I said no!" he barked, then sucked in his breath as pain shot through his face.

Christine stared at the striped curtain where his head had been, bewildered by the sudden forcefulness of his words. Something nettled her again, as if she were missing a concern that ran deeper than the morning's confusion.

"Erik," she said softly, "please tell me what is wrong."

A long pause, and then his voice, now calm.

"In my anger yesterday, I am afraid I made a grievous error. I was careless—should have been on my guard, when I wasn't."

"You can't mean our marriage." Fear began to stir within her.

He pulled back the curtain again, his mask now loosely situated over his freshly-bandaged nose. "No no; not the marriage itself, Christine." A ghost of a smile manifested, despite his bruised, swollen features. "Believe me, angel, I am perfectly content in our union—more so than I deserve to be." Kneeling over his satchel, he pulled out her bank ledger and opened it, removing a piece of paper. He handed it to her.

"Read this."

It was their marriage certificate. She skimmed over it in confusion, not quite sure what to look for.

"I don't understand."

"The witnesses – look at their names."

"They are in different languages."

"Yes." He leaned over her shoulder and pointed to the entries. "The first is Arabic—the boy. The second is the Jewish man. It is written in Russian."

"And?"

"It says 'Sergei Degaev'."

Christine whirled around in surprise. "But…this is wonderful news! You have found him. Or rather, he has found you."

"He found me, Christine," he said, his voice grim. "Not only me, but you, as well…our real names, where we are living, that we came from Paris... And he knows that I murdered the priest." He ran his hands through his black hair. "How could I have been so foolhardy? So completely and utterly reckless?"

She shook her head in protest. "But Erik, we also know what _he_ looks like, who _he_ is…"

"We have no idea if he really _is_ the Russian—that is the problem. He could have found out about my hunt for Degaev, and used the name as bait. These people, this organization—it is not beyond their means to do so. Who's to say they haven't already found us here, Christine?"

There was fear in his eyes. It was not often that she saw it there, but when it manifested, it frightened her; she did not like to think of her guardian angel as being afraid.

Erik must have glimpsed something of his troubled look reflected in her own eyes; wrapping his long fingers around the back of her neck, he pulled her closer, thumb skimming over the light scars upon her throat.

"This is why I wish for you not to go to the sisters with the truth, Christine." He released her neck, his fingers just grazing her collarbone. "As much as I would like to tout my lovely wife at every given opportunity, it would raise far too many questions—more than I am willing to answer. I certainly never should have come into the convent with you last night, but nothing can be done about that now. It is vital to protect whatever anonymity you have left."

"Very well," she murmured, trying not to think about what would happen if Mas Quennell's cronies _did_ happen to find them in Jerusalem. Tossing her head back, she braved a bit of a smile. "What is our next move, then? Do we meet with Sergei Degaev?"

"_I_—not _we_—shall return to the bookstore, and see what I can find out. Ah, no protesting." He held up a finger to silence her retort. "Even if he _is_ the man we are looking for, he is also a former _People's Will_ radical; I am not inclined to trust him, just yet, and I'd rather not have you along when I meet him. If I feel it is safe, then I shall bring you."

Taking the certificate from her hand, he returned it to the ledger and tucked it into his satchel. "Which reminds me—do you have your punjab lasso here, or is it in the cistern?"

Christine watched his nervous fingers with growing curiosity. "It is in my bureau."

"First thing tomorrow morning, I am going to teach you how to use it. Despite your original sordid intentions in acquiring the thing, I have decided that you should learn how to protect yourself."

"You will actually teach me to use the lasso, then?" she asked incredulously.

Erik leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms to hide his shaking hands from her. "Yes: the lasso, daggers, pistols, whatever my angel desires, God help us. Perhaps I will even give you lessons in breaking a man's nose. Would you like that, my dear wife?"

She laughed merrily. "If by breaking a man's nose you mean waiting until he hits you first, I'd rather pass that lesson by! Any of the other lessons would be more than acceptable." Sauntering over to the man, she lightly brushed a fingertip along his forearm. "However, I will only allow you to teach me, Maestro, on one condition."

His eyebrow quirked up. "Yes?"

"Resume Jean-Paul's music lessons," she rushed on. "He misses them; he misses you."

"Christine—"

She stomped her foot. "Do not shut out my son because you are afraid of him."

Her eyes pleaded, begged him for his indulgence. The man sighed wearily. He had a difficult time refusing her; it had become a gratingly pronounced weakness over the years.

"Very well, my angel. Your son shall have his music, and you, your weapons." He placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead and turned to leave.

"Erik?" Christine said softly, catching his hand in hers. "Thank you."

He glanced back and nodded, his painfully swollen features causing her heart to ache.

OOOOO

Ze'ev Borochov was a well-respected, average man. He was the proprietor of the _Ma'ase_ _SheHaya_ Bookstore, a moderately-successful shop nestled in the heart of the old city's Jewish quarter.

He had fled the Russian Empire several years ago, not long after the Czar's assassination, like hundreds of his brethren had done to escape the blood libels in their hometowns. Finding comfort next to the ancient, craggy wall of the Temple Mount, he settled into an idyllic life amongst other Jewish traders: cobblers, tailors, old furniture sellers, grocers, tobacconists, peddlers, goldsmiths, bakers, musicians, potters and painters. All conducted business with one another during the _Shaot Avodah_. At night, they feasted together; on the Sabbath, studied their Talmud and Torah.

For a good portion of his young life, Ze'ev had put aside his Jewish roots and dedicated himself to the modern causes of the _Zemyla i Volya_, or _Land and Liberty_. His mother had cried when he shaved away his temple locks; his father had driven him from their home in Russian Georgia.

Flourishing St. Petersburg had called to him, the glorious capital city with her bridges and canals, palaces, squares and statues. There, he met with his fellow revolutionaries to discuss the future society they were endeavoring to build. The forward thinkers inspired him; it was difficult not to be drawn in by their zeal. The utopians preached equality for all people—both peasants and princes alike.

After several years of devotion to the clandestine revolution, however, disillusionment began to set in. Political reform was slow in coming—too slow, for many of the youthful, impatient members. A good portion of them took up the slogan "Now or Never," printing it in leaflets and tattooing it upon their bodies. A core group of radicals had also begun to advocate systematic terror as a means to success in their causes, and whispers of a planned assassination circulated through the ranks.

The final straw for Ze'ev was the anti-semitism taking root amongst his so-called friends. Many members saw the Jewish population as a good scapegoat for their violent plans. Russia was already a hot-bed of hatred for that particular race; turning the country's focus upon the Jews and away from _Zemyla i Volya_ seemed an excellent diversionary tactic to most of the radicals.

Ze'ev could not think of a better time to cut his ties with the organization. However, it was not to be.

Many of the other revolutionaries felt as Ze'ev had, and decided to break away from _Land and Liberty_. The organization split into two: the _Black Repartition, _who opposed violence, and the _People's Will, _who encouraged it.

It was at this time that the young Ze'ev was approached by the _Okhrana_ to serve as a spy within the thriving _Narodnaya Volya_ branch. At first he had refused, desiring nothing more than to slip into oblivion, away from his radical ties. When news reached him of his family's brutal murder, however, and the late-night raid upon his Georgian hometown, the broken man immediately agreed to help the police. The raiders, he discovered, had been members of the _People's Will_.

And so, for several years, he served as a spy for the _Okhrana,_ within the organization he had helped to build. It was Ze'ev that had warned the police of seven different assassination attempts being planned. Unfortunately, they had not been able to prevent all of them, and a _People's Will_ bomb killed Czar Alexander II in 1881. Failure to save the life of the emperor only drove him on in his personal quest for vengeance; he helped the _Okhrana_ ruthlessly bring down the organization, person-by-person.

His last act for Russia was to serve as a key witness during the Trial of the Fourteen. After he testified against his fellow revolutionaries and saw his former friends executed, he fled St. Petersburg for good, cutting every familiar tie. All that he wanted was peace; a chance to mourn his family, start a new one of his own, and re-devote himself to the religion that had nourished him as a child.

In Jerusalem, in his little bookstore, he had found everything he desired. Growing out his temple locks again, he once more took up the faith of his parents. He had a wife, a family, friends, and a belief in something greater than himself.

And the masked man browsing the aisles of his _Ma'ase_ _SheHaya_ Bookstore could take away his perfect world in a heartbeat.

This Erik—the same strange man he had followed yesterday, all the way to the Church of the Flagellation—had entered his bookstore just before he had closed the doors for the evening. He was not sure if the man recognized him as the wedding witness or not. Surely, he had seen the name upon the certificate by now; for reasons apparent only to him, though, he did not approach Jewish proprietor at the counter.

"_Shalom Aleichem_. Can I help you find something, sir?" Ze'ev called.

The odd man pulled his black _keffiyeh_ across the masked side of his face and approached the counter, setting a ledger of some kind upon the surface.

"I am searching for a book on French investments and banking, by a certain Russian author. Would you happen to have anything of the sort?"

The bookseller cleared his throat. He had played this game many times before, in his past life. "I believe the author you are looking for is Degaev. I may be able to answer some questions for you."

Erik stared at him, his gold gaze unwavering in its intensity. "How can I know that the information you will give me is correct?" A bit of the _keffiyeh_ cloth fell back, and the Russian saw that under the man's white mask, his nose was bandaged.

"You wish for proof?"

Ze'ev reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of olive oil-based polish and a rag, trying to hide his anxiety over the man's injury. This person would mean trouble for his family—he knew it yesterday, and he knew it today. Numerous times since he signed "Sergei Degaev" to the certificate, he had questioned his decision, torn between the desire to slip back to his new life and forget about running into the Comtesse de Chagny. And yet, some shred of allegiance from the past called to him; he found that he could not turn away from his obligation to help the widow of the man who had helped him.

Dampening the cloth, he made a show of polishing the wooden surface. At length, he spoke.

"Yes, I suppose we are in the same boat, Monsieur—I was just wondering the same thing about you. It would not be enough for me to tell you that I knew Raoul de Chagny well, would it?"

The man smirked. "A lot of men knew Chagny well, and they ended up killing him."

Ze'ev nodded. "This ledger—it is Chagny's?" He examined the cover. "Yes, I see the bank seal. I would imagine that there is a record of a transaction to one Sergei Degaev, via the _Doveritelny i Investitsionny_ Bank in St. Petersburg, Russia. But again, this bit of information does not tell you whether I can be trusted."

"No, it doesn't."

The bookseller thought for a moment, then smiled. "If I had wanted to kill you and the Comtesse, I could have done so, you know. I had plenty of opportunities yesterday, as I followed you around the city. I could have murdered you after your wedding and dragged you into the underground tunnels, leaving behind no trace. _If _I had wanted to."

The masked man paled a bit; Ze'ev could not be sure whether it was in anger or shock. He decided to try his luck.

"Tomorrow night, bring the Comtesse—or should I say, Madame Reinard—to the bookstore, and I shall tell you what I know."

Erik abruptly shook his head. "No. It seems we are at an impasse, Mr. Degaev." He snatched up the ledger and turned to go.

"Her husband wanted her to know his secrets, believe me. I will tell no one, but her."

"I am her husband now," he snapped, pulling the store door open. "Good day."

The Russian scrambled around the counter, not quite sure why he did so. Just a moment ago, hadn't he wished never to see this person again?

"What if I told you that there is no such person as Sergei Degaev?"

The masked man halted in his retreat, his back to the bookseller. At last, he turned around.

"I am listening."

"There were three of us—three trial witnesses to use that particular alias. I am the only one of the three that is still alive; the other two men are dead. One was killed after the Trial of the Fourteen was over. The other, before it even began."

The masked man said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"The first man was named Jaros Stanek."

"And the second?"

Ze'ev took a deep breath, praying that God would protect him and his family, should this man prove false.

"Raoul de Chagny."

* * *

A/N

_Ma'ase SheHaya_ (Hebrew): Once Upon a Time

_Shaot Avodah_ (Hebrew): The times during which employees are meant to honestly earn their wages.

_Shalom Aleichem_ (Hebrew): Peace be with you. A common Jewish greeting.

_Okhrana_: The Russian secret police; equivalent of the French _Sûreté_


	28. The First Husband

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, not even Rivka. I pinched her and Ze'ev's images from portraits by Isaac Levitan, a famous Russian-Jewish painter.

**Side Notes:**

_Thank you so much to Chat for betaing! Her own work can be found here at FFN under "Chatastic."_

_Thanks to Cookies for assisting me in Russian formalities._

_I realized I have been sadly remiss in thanking my Aria reviewers and readers, as well. Thanks so much, y'all—I really appreciate your kind words. Sending many crazy bluebirds and flower petals your way!_

_Thank you to all of the Frat!Packers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement._

**

* * *

The First Husband**

"Remember, before you even throw the noose, be sure to slide the rope through your fingers to rid it of any kinks in the line. You want the coils to slip easily off of your hand when the lasso is thrown. Now hold the ring loosely in your hand, like this…the joint at the base of the noose…"

Christine carefully smoothed her hand over the leathery rope she had loosed from the tight coil, took hold of the noose, and glanced back at her teacher. He nodded his approval.

"Do not hold your wrist so stiffly; allow it to move easily. Let your wrist act as an axel, and swing the rope as if it were a wheel revolving horizontally around your wrist and over your head."

Erik gently grasped the back of her hand to demonstrate. He shook out the tenseness in her wrist and situated her fingers over the noose ring, checking to see that the rope rested properly in the crook of her little hand.

"Once you have the rope in a spin, let it move swiftly enough to enable you to guide it. When making the cast, step forward, bring your hand to the level of your shoulder, palm down—" Erik eased her arm away from her body "—and let it stretch to full arm's length without interrupting the swinging motion of the noose. Then you let it go and ensnare your prey..."

Christine stared at the blanched stump of olive tree several feet in front of her. It was difficult to focus on her lesson today; Erik had chosen to take her deep into the hills of the outskirts of the city, instead of their underground room next to the cistern. The clear, mid-March day stretched out before her with its endless blue skies and gentle breezes that carried the spices of the city. The olive trees swayed lazily, their branches still sleepy in the morning sun. Even the borrowed shaggy camel that had carried them up the steep terrain had settled upon his haunches in the shade, and was now flicking his tail and chewing happily at some unknown thing.

And with Erik standing just behind her, the smell of his skin a sharp mixture of soap and the narghile that he and Nadir had imbibed in earlier—a welcome relief to the rather musty, cellar-like smell that usually clung to his clothing—it was a struggle to focus on her "victim". At the moment, all she could feel was the press of his form against her back.

_Goodness, what a wanton, sniveling mess I have become these past few days_, she mused, and leaned into his chest a bit more, enjoying the feel of him.

The man teasingly lowered his mouth, whispering his instructions into her ear.

"…and after the noose is snuggly about the neck, you whip your arm down and over, effectively crushing the windpipe and garroting your victim. Or, if you are strong enough, you could snap their neck and not even have to mess with strangulation."

She wriggled away from her teacher, her ears burning, shaken that he could make such gruesome words sound so harmless.

He shrugged his shoulders and smirked at her floundering. "Come now, Christine. We could have begun with pistols or daggers, and spared your delicate sensibilities a moment longer. You, however, insisted upon beginning with the rope. So let us strip off the party gloves, my dear wife, and speak plainly." His voice became serious, all levity at once dismissed. "I am teaching you to kill. If, for some reason, you find yourself in a situation in which you need to apply any of this, the worst thing you could do is hesitate because you are afraid. Do you understand? To think first would mean death."

Christine nodded, trying her best to cover the discomfort his words had stirred. Suddenly, the luster of the bright, spring day grew dim, and the hills of Jerusalem, grey. An unbidden face manifested before her eyes…Mas Quennell's…his cool, emotionless expression…pale, thin lips twisting malevolently as he tightened the rope about her throat. Had Mas hesitated before he began to strangle her? Had he been afraid, just for a moment, to take her life? She skimmed through her memories from that particular night in London, trying to recall a flicker of regret in the man's stony eyes. She remembered nothing but hatred. Hatred, and pleasure in the pain he was causing her…

It was odd that in the two months following the attack, it was not the attack itself that had haunted her dreams. It was the loss of her voice and Erik's departure that had caused her to toss and turn in her bed. However, now that she had found her voice and her angel, the demon that had been lurking in the recesses had taken hold of her. Three weeks of marriage to Erik, and already, half of their nights had been interrupted by one of them starting awake after a grueling nightmare.

She had always suspected that Erik's dreams often plagued him. Many times, in their days at the _Opéra Populaire_, he would come to her morning lessons in the foulest of moods, sneering and snapping at the slightest offense. The child Christine had not understood his tempers, and simply believed that she had angered him in some way. His wife, however, understood. The quiet, unconscious moans of a tortured boy…the vengeful growls of a rejected genius…all played out in the dark hours, in his dreams.

The first night she had witnessed his nightmares, she had gathered the broken man into her arms, hoping to soothe his fears. Instead, she found herself violently thrown to the ground, his confused, contorted face hovering above hers in blind rage. And then he had pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck and pleading for forgiveness. Since that night, she had quickly learned to simply let his nightmares fade into the darkness from whence they came; there was nothing to be done, except hope that her presence would be a small comfort to him in the black reaches of his mind.

And now she had her nightmares, as well; the same one, over and over again. First, the pain…weight crushing her chest…the fire licking up her throat and into her head…sight running red…the pain would be forever seared upon her memory, rising up and claiming her when she least expected it.

She shivered.

And then she was in the cold, hard ground with things crawling about, winding their way through the soft earth, skimming along the sides of…of her coffin. Raoul, his empty eyes turned to her, death exuding from him…_Death is but an illusion_, he would whisper. Then she would scream.

And wake to find Erik next to her.

"Christine?"

Her glassy eyes snapped to his; they were dark with concern, the gold holding her captive, reading her thoughts. He always knew what she was thinking, feeling. He could see her fears, too.

She hated Mas Quennell. Hated him for killing Raoul…hated him for attacking her and threatening her child…hated him for violating her dreams, long after she had left him behind in London.

Hated him for making her weak again.

A sob broke in her throat. Burying her face in Erik's robes, she clung to the rough material as if clinging to her one lifeline. She was vaguely aware of the man's arms wrapping around her shoulders, his melodious voice soft, soothing her fears. At length, he spoke.

"The dreams have to be faced at some point, angel. I know I am not the best person to help with this…" He touched her cheek. "If this is too difficult, though, we can forget about the punjab lasso; I can teach you to use something else, if you like."

Christine considered his offer, and then shook her head. "I need to do this. I want to learn."

Erik's thumb came under her chin and tilted her face up. Seeing her determination, he smiled down upon her, eyes glistening with approval. "Good girl," he murmured. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and considered what to do next. Finally, he led his pupil to one of the rocks jutting out from the hill and settled her there, took up the lasso, and strode into the clearing.

"The best way to learn how to cast the rope is to observe." The man stretched his arms and shoulders up over his head, working out the kinks in his back. Loosely coiling the lasso around his left hand, he grasped the noose with his right. "When you become skilled enough, you will simply be able to send the rope flying without working it into a spin. Quickness is key. Watch my wrist movements, stance, shoulders, the direction of the rope…"

Her teacher whipped the lasso around the tree stump with such speed and agility, Christine barely had time to process what had happened, let alone watch for specific movements.

"Erik, I couldn't see a thing—"

"Just watch, Christine," he interjected, and proceeded to throw the rope several more times. After the fourth or fifth throw, the woman began to notice repeated actions; the way he worked the noose into a spin while he was casting, a simple flick of the wrist…

The lesson continued on for a good hour or more, alternating between Erik's instruction, and her practicing it. The first time she tried to cast the lasso, it ended up flying from her hands completely and falling in a miserable heap upon the ground, several feet shy of the tree. Erik had not laughed, however; instead, he merely told her to pick it up and try again.

She did, and finally, after a dozen or so casts, she managed to hook the noose around a jagged portion of the stump. Thrilled at last to see the lasso hit its target, she flung herself into her teacher's arms with a gleeful cry, forgetting the second step—pulling the noose taut.

The camel bellowed along with her, the creature growing restless with lack of movement. Erik glanced at the beast, lowered his wife to the ground, kissed her forehead, and called it a day.

"I think this should be sufficient for one afternoon, my angel." He untied the camel reins from the gnarled branch and adjusted the brightly colored blanket. Tightening the saddle straps upon the animal's hump, he swung into the seat, his gray _abaya_ flaring behind him. "It is getting rather late, and it will take a good hour to return to the city, and bring the camel back to its stable. And you will want to time for your _toilette_ before we make our way to the Jewish Quarter, I would imagine."

"Yes, we wouldn't want to smell like camel, would we?" Christine laughed and grasped the man's hand, allowing him to pull her up into the saddle behind him.

Checking to see that she was settled, Erik clucked his tongue and rattled off something in Arabic. All of a sudden, the woman felt a rush of air as the camel sprang up, its knobby legs lifting its passengers high above the ground. Her arms tightened about her husband's waist as the animal lurched forward, causing her panicked stomach to lurch with it. After awhile, however, the camel's gait eased into a peaceful sway, and Christine loosened her grip on her companion's clothing.

The return trip through the hills was quiet, with both persons simply enjoying the other's company. The soft plodding of the camel's slipper-like hooves and its easy shuffling had a hypnotic quality; the woman soon found herself leaning against Erik's back in drowsy contentment.

After awhile, her teacher broke the silence. "Christine, look."

She opened her sleepy eyes to find magnificent Jerusalem spread out before them, its sandy walls glowing white in the glaring, early-afternoon sun. Pressing her lips to the channel between her husband's shoulder blades, she murmured a prayer to heaven, simply grateful to be alive.

OOOOO

Ze'ev Borochov was the picture of contentment in his cozy parlor that evening, a marked contrast to his guests across from him upon the new, overstuffed sofa, holding half-empty teacups in their hands. Erik stared defiantly about the room, his fingers drumming against his knees in an irritated fashion. He had not been expecting their meeting with Ze'ev to be a social occasion; Christine knew as much. Earlier, he had explained that they would be visiting the Jewish Quarter, and she should wear her plain gray dress and a scarf tied over her head; he also would be discarding his _libas_ and _thob _in exchange for plain black slacks, shirt, and vest. He instructed her to keep conversation to a minimum, and to not answer any questions in detail.

Erik had met with the Russian several times since their first encounter at the bookstore to ascertain whether the man could be trusted. At last, he had agreed to bring his new wife to see Borochov. Her husband had told her that Ze'ev was a distrusting, guarded man; the former radical had made many enemies, and was not open to meeting new people.

_Erik and he should get along splendidly, then_, she had silently mused as they made their way through the shaded streets, into the Jewish Quarter.

Even Christine, however, had been caught off guard when the man and his wife had met them at the door of their home, each holding a tiny child nestled in the crook of their arm. Erik had mentioned nothing about a family.

Borochov was not at all what she had envisioned; she had thought Jews were craggy-looking men with sloped brows and large noses, like so many political posters upon Parisian newsstands and walls showed them to be. Ze'ev, however, had soft brown hair, an intelligent face—youthful as well, despite his beard and wire-rimmed glasses. His slightly bent frame lent him a worn look, as if the world was just a bit too heavy for his shoulders. He had kind eyes, though; she put great stock in people's eyes.

He sat in his old straight-back chair—the one his wife had wanted to throw out, he explained, because of its threadbare condition.

"I would not allow her to get rid of it," he said to his guests, trying to make the eccentric pair more at ease. "Since my arrival in Jerusalem, I have developed an irrational aversion to change of any kind—a tendency that often frustrates my Rivka beyond belief. Other times, however, my little wife could not be happier with my desire to keep our young family firmly rooted in Jerusalem."

The mother clucked her tongue and moved about the room, bouncing one of the babies in her arms. Her gaze roved over the two strangers sitting upon her sofa, briefly rested upon Erik's mask, then shyly fell back to the infant.

Rivka Simkhovna Borochova was beautiful…quite possibly the most beautiful woman Christine had ever seen. Her looks, while not stunning or ostentatious, were infused with a quiet sobriety that made the other woman feel as though she were studying a work of art. The lady had wrapped herself in an understated oriental shawl, the gold and green flowers warming her olive skin. A striped ivory scarf graced her head, its fringed trim mingling with waves of dark brown hair that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Colorless lips…classic chin…keen black eyes that took in everything around her. Even the gray circles that rested above her cheekbones did not detract from her appearance; instead, they gave her face an honest, open quality that caused one to believe they had met her before.

From the corner of her eye, Christine saw that Erik was also studying the woman. She could not help but observe that this Russian woman curved in all of the places that she did not, and wondered if _he_ thought she was lovely as well. The wife protectively threaded her fingers through his.

He glanced at her, eyebrow quirking in amusement, and let the small act of jealousy go. His hand, though, remained wrapped about hers, his restless fingers absently toying with her wedding band.

Christine was shamed by her jealousy; she tried to remember her manners. "Your babies are precious. What are their names?" The mother smiled warmly, and she suddenly felt like a child for being jealous at all.

"My wife does not speak French, Madame Reinard," Ze'ev explained. He held up the sleeping baby in his arms. "This _sheyne meydel_ is my daughter, Sasha. She is quiet now, but when she is awake, she babbles happily at any and all things. And her brother," he nodded to the boy in his wife's arms, "is as quiet as Sasha is loud. His name is Benyamin."

Rivka turned to her husband and murmured something in Russian, then looked to Christine expectantly.

"My wife asks if you would like to hold Sasha," Ze'ev said.

"Oh, yes! Yes please. Thank you…" She looked to Erik for help.

"_Gospadin_ Borochov," Erik whispered in her ear. "And his wife is _Gospazha_ Borochova."

She smiled gratefully at her husband and handed her teacup to Rivka's waiting hand. She was rather impressed that the young mother could hold a sleeping baby in one arm and two teacups in the other, and considered that the woman must have a great deal of practice shuffling babies and objects.

Pulling her hand from Erik's to reach out for the child, she murmured her thanks to "Gospadin Borochov". Cradling the little girl in her arms, the woman watched as the infant stirred, wrapping petite fingers around her larger one. Sasha cooed in her sleep, and Christine's heart leapt; she missed the feel of holding such a tiny, weightless thing. She nearly said so to Erik, but felt him stiffen uncomfortably before she could even utter the words. At that moment, she would have given anything to be able to read the expression on his face; unfortunately, the only view she had of him was his emotionless mask.

_Even if I could see his face,_ she thought, _he guards his emotions so carefully, I doubt I could fathom what he is thinking. _So instead, she turned back to the Borochovs.

"How old are your children?"

"Five months, Madame. I was in St. Petersburg for the trial when they were born. In October, after I had returned from Russia to find that I had missed the birth of our twins, I vowed never to leave my wife and children behind again. I have not set foot outside the city walls since. Very few people know that I am in Jerusalem, and even fewer know my real name. I would prefer to keep it that way." The man looked pointedly at his guests, then relaxed as they murmured their assent.

"You have a son, I believe, Madame. Jean-Paul is his name, correct? He would be close to the age of three now."

Christine's face paled. "Two and a half years."

The Russian smiled. "I am sorry to startle you; it must be daunting to have a stranger know so much about you. I came by the information honestly enough, though. You see, your hus—" he caught himself, "—the Comte de Chagny told me quite a bit about your small family during our time together. He even showed me the tiny portrait of you that he kept in his watch; that was how I recognized you at the Church of the Flagellation."

She carefully nodded. "Yes, I know the picture that you speak of. We had them done for our third wedding anniversary; I gave him the watch, and he gave me a brooch."

"A brooch from Prague—a locket, in truth. I was with him the day he purchased it. He was going to have his portrait done upon his return to Paris."

Christine's cautious gaze locked with his. "There was something special about the brooch, Gospadin. Perhaps you remember?"

He smiled at her test. "A secret compartment behind one of the portraits, Madame. One has to pop the frame out to find it—very clever thing. There was a small piece of paper slipped into it."

"No," the woman said in confusion, shaking her head. "There was nothing in the compartment. You are mistaken."

"Madame, I assure you I am not. I was present when he wrote it, though I cannot tell you what it said. He meant it for your eyes only, I believe. If it is missing, either Chagny removed it, or someone else did."

Erik cleared his throat, his patience wearing thin. "Sir, perhaps it would be best if you first explain your relationship to the boy," he snapped. "_Then_ we can discuss cherished anniversary gifts and other such frivolities."

Ze'ev started at the unusual outburst, then settled back into his chair and pensively ran a hand over his beard, his eyes intriguingly fixed upon the masked man. At length, he spoke. "Very well. I can see that you are anxious to get to the heart of the matter, Monsieur." The man turned to his wife and murmured some brief explanation in Russian. She nodded and crossed the room to Christine, gently lifting Sasha from her arms. Kissing her husband upon his forehead, she quietly slipped from the room and shut the door behind her.

Ze'ev cleared his throat. "Tell me, Madame: what do you know of the last three years of the Raoul de Chagny's life?"

She thought for a moment. "We were married for those three years…he became the Comte when his brother drowned," her eyes flicked briefly to Erik, "which happened at the time of our elopement. When we returned, he took up his responsibilities as Comte de Chagny—the estates, finances, households—and from what I have recently learned, he inherited membership to a secret gentlemen's league, of sorts." Her voice softened. "He was away from home more often than not—travels regarding business, he explained, although I now believe that frequent trips somehow involved this organization."

The Russian nodded. "You are referring to the _Fraternité_. An assortment of some of the most influential figures in France: aristocrats, authors, politicians…"

The woman looked pointedly at Ze'ev. "I do not care who or what they are, Gospadin. They murdered him, you understand. Poison. I don't know why. All I have been told is that he was in possession of this oath that they are still searching for." Her blue eyes met his. "I was hoping that you could help me to understand his role there—tell me why they killed him."

"I will do my best, Madame." He turned to Erik. "Have you told her about the Sergei Degaev alias?"

"Only what you have told me. Are we really to believe that Raoul de Chagny, that naïve child, was actually an informant for the Russian _Okhrana_?" he asked incredulously.

Borochov grinned. "Yes, through the _Sûreté_. He went to them first, once he found out what the _Fraternité_ was involved with. I think it was that very naiveté to which you refer, Monsieur, that spurred him to do so. You see, Raoul de Chagny was a man who only saw good and evil—there was no gray area—not yet, not for him. Perhaps in time, with age, he would have discovered one. However, the young, idealistic man simply knew that his fellow "brothers" were doing wrong, and tried to right it."

He cleared his throat. "There were three of us who were known as Sergei Degaev, the "witness" who was slated to testify against the _Narodnaya Volya_ during the Trial of the Fourteen. I shared my knowledge of the inside workings of the organization—their plans to assassinate the czar, acts of violence, inciting publications, etc. Jaros Stanek, a middle-aged investor from Bratislava, testified as to how the organization's funds were dispersed to the fourteen men on trial. And Raoul de Chagny was going to provide information about the source of the _Narodnaya Volya_'s funding. Your very own _Fraternité_."

Erik started. "So, the _Fraternité_ was funding the _Narodnaya Volya_, then," he murmured.

Ze'ev nodded. "Raoul was disgusted with the fact that his aristocratic peers were trying to control political situations by using violence-oriented groups, such as the _Narodnaya Volya_. According to the Comte, the _Fraternité_ financed them because they wanted the radicals to gain influence in Russian politics. If this happened, then the _Fraternité_, through their financial backing, would subsequently gain a strong arm within the government."

"Why would they want that, Gospadin?" Christine asked, her eyes wide.

The Russian shrugged. "Why does anyone want power and control, Madame? Think of the clout they could have had—not only in Russia, but France, as well. The _Fraternité_ was founded on the principles that the use of terror is permissible, if used for a greater good. They have somehow been involved in most major uprisings in France since the Reign of Terror during the Revolution—the latest being the Commune."

Ze'ev stood up and threaded his hands behind his neck, rolling his head around to loosen the muscles. He slowly paced across the room, quietly sorting through his secrets.

"The _Narodnaya Volya_ also had similar beliefs. Their plans were flawless on paper. In practice, however, they failed because of men like Chagny and Stanek, who believed that money and power were not as important as doing what was right. And because the _Narodnaya Volya_ failed to gain control, the _Fraternité_ found themselves in a grand mess."

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at Christine, his face set in grim lines.

"You see, the brotherhood's financial support of the radicals also implicated them in the assassination of Czar Alexander II. And supposedly, Raoul de Chagny had the documents to prove it."

"The oath of _Fraternité_." Christine whispered the words as if calling down a curse upon her head.

Erik ignored her touch of drama. "What sort of documents?"

Borochov resumed his pacing. "Financial records, letters, instructions that would directly link the _Fraternité_ to the _Narodnaya Volya_. And the oath that you spoke of, Madame—from what I understand, it was the brotherhood's official charter. Each member, since its beginnings nearly 100 years ago, has put their name to it."

Christine gasped. "A list of individual names? But… if something like that was ever made public, it could destroy the members' lives! Why would Raoul have had possession of it? He didn't even know about them until Philippe died."

Erik turned to his distraught wife. "Because he was a Chagny, Christine. Born to privilege, part of an old aristocratic family. Your _avocat _explained that the Chagnys helped to found the _Fraternité_—who better to keep the relics than one of their descendents?"

The Russian nodded. "This is true. According to Raoul, Philippe had been the group's executive secretary of sorts, up to his death."

"Philippe always did place a great deal of importance in doing one's duty to the Chagny line," she murmured, on the verge of tears. "He did not approve of me…"

Ze'ev cleared his throat. "Yes, well, apparently Raoul was of different stock." He smiled at the woman. "You already knew that, however, didn't you?"

Christine could all but feel the heat of Erik's eyes boring into the side of her head, waiting for her response. She sidestepped the question.

"What happened to the documents?"

"No one knows. The Russian _Okhrana_ did not have them, because they were unable to implicate the _Fraternité _without them. With Raoul's death and the disappearance of the documents, the case against a 'secret French organization' was sketchy, at best. The trial of the Fourteen went on without a single mention of the brotherhood.

"And the _Fraternité_ doesn't have the documentation, because they believe that Christine has it," Erik added. "This indicates that it is still hidden away, somewhere." He shook his head in disgust. 'Leave it to that boy to stash it in some secret place, without a single word to anyone. Every aspect of his conduct was irresponsible! What kind of a fool leaves his family behind in the lion's den, while he whores himself to the Russian government? Chagny was slowly poisoned by a man he knew to be dangerous—in his very home, no less!"

Ze'ev firmly shook his head, his black eyes sparking in irritation. "None of his family members could know of his actions, because of that very reason: Mas Quennell's presence in their household. Always watching, waiting for the slightest deviance in everyday life that might suggest something was amiss. He could not rid himself of Mas, because it would cast suspicion on his activities. And he couldn't send his wife and child away, because then the _Fraternité_ most certainly would have known he had become a turncoat."

He stared into the orange glow of the oil lamp, hypnotized by its flickering. Silence filled the room, each inhabitant reflecting on the dead man's dilemma. Finally, Erik broke the quiet, voicing what the other two had been thinking.

"Nevertheless, Mas and his brotherhood somehow discovered Raoul's actions, because they killed him."

Ze'ev nodded. "I do not know how they found out. However, Quennell has eyes and ears everywhere…Russia, France, across Europe, really." He took up his chair again and settled into the faded upholstery, turning back to Madame Reinard.

"Anyway, as I said, there were three of us to testify. More than two years before the trial, from the summer of 1882 until just months before your husband's death in June, we were housed in close quarters for weeks at a time during our interrogations with the _Okhrana_. It was in those periods that I became friends with your former husband, Madame, and learned most of this information." The corners of his eyes crinkled. "Our talks began with the birth of your son, actually."

"Oh?" Christine was intrigued.

"It was September, not long after the interrogations had begun. He had been forced to return to Prague directly after Jean-Paul was born," Borochov explained. "Raoul was in an unusually foul mood—said that you had had a difficult time of it, apparently, and Bohemia was the last place he wanted to be."

"Yes," the woman said softly. "He left Paris not three days after Jean-Paul had been born. Unavoidable business." A lump formed in her throat; she could not even remember the angry words she had launched at him as he had left her side that day. Her hand quickly swiped at her eyes, brushing away tears before they could drop. She let it fall back to her lap.

Erik's hand found it there. The young woman did not know whether he sought it out of comfort or possessiveness. She did not care. It felt good to simply have him at her side, at last. His solid presence, though perturbed at the attention being paid to Raoul de Chagny, gave her the reassurance that she needed. She closed the door upon that unhappy memory once more.

Ze'ev continued. "All three of us—our families—sacrificed so much. Rivka refused to even have children with me until I agreed to settle down permanently. How badly I wanted to tell her… We were not allowed to disclose anything to our wives, however."

The man cleared his throat. Christine was beginning to think that it was a nervous habit of his.

"Talk of our families soon led to discussions of future plans for when the trial was over. It was understood that we could never go back to our past lives, once the trial took place—it was too dangerous. Jaros Stanek and Raoul both enjoyed Prague. Jaros was originally from the Bohemian countryside—the Tatras, actually. They often talked of living in Prague during winters, and summering together in the mountains with their wives and children." His expression grew pensive. "The only desire in my heart, however, was for Yerushalom—the city of peace."

Erik sneered. "I find it rather foolish of you to trust each other so implicitly with your secrets."

The man stilled again, taken aback by his guest's bitterness. He shook his head, and continued. "In retrospect, yes, it was unwise for the three of us to confide in each other. But you must understand, Monsieur, that we were isolated—cut off from friends and family, with heavy burdens weighing upon our shoulders. We needed to talk to someone, or we would go mad. And as we were all on the same side…" Ze'ev shrugged. "Perhaps it is hard to fathom."

Erik's gold eyes grew hard. "I understand the madness of isolation better than you think, Gospadin."

Borochov observed the masked man warily, trying to make some sense of the mystery before him. Not knowing how to respond, he turned back to Christine and faintly smiled. "It was the Comte, Madame, that helped to relocate Rivka and me to our current home, in late 1883. Political tension in St. Petersburg was unbearable, and I could not have my Jewish wife alone in such a place. I would not go to the _Okhrana_ or _Sûreté_ for the funds—I intended to make a clean break, once my service to them ended. So Raoul gave us the money."

"The entry in the Chagny bank ledger," Erik stated.

The Russian nodded.

"And the dozens of transfers to the Prague bank?" Christine asked. "They were under the name C. Daaé—my maiden name. Could they possibly have been for Raoul's planned move to Prague?"

"I cannot say what the entries were for specifically, Madame, but your theory seems likely." Ze'ev leaned back in his threadbare chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that would be a correct assumption."

Erik grunted in approval of her reasoning, a familiar sound that Christine had often delighted in hearing. She could not help but bask in the glow of his praise, however slight.

"What of Jaros Stanek?" her husband asked.

The man sighed. "Poor Jaros—after the trial, he never made it back to Prague. He lingered too long in St. Petersburg, and was killed in revenge. I cannot say what happened to his family, although I suspect they are still settled in Bohemia, somewhere."

Christine nodded, lost in her thoughts. "So Raoul was going to move Jean-Paul and I to Prague, but he became too ill from the poisonings."

"Yes. It was a shame—a damn shame." He shook his head. "And that, Madame, is really all that I can tell you about your—" he glanced at Erik, "—about the Comte."

Yes, Christine did find that she was saddened by the thought. How could she have known that all of the evenings she had spent feeling angry and abandoned at their estate, Raoul had been risking his life to try and make a better existence for his small family? She found herself wishing she could take back the hurtful things she had said and done to him. _If only I had known…if only he had confided in me instead of leaving me in the dark…_

"Ze'ev."

Three sets of eyes turned to the source of the soft voice, the woman peering around the door. Rivka smiled at her guests and murmured something to her husband, nodding to the mantle clock above the fireplace. Her timing could not have been better, almost as if she had been listening for the conversation to die away. Somehow, though, Christine did not believe that was the case. The man replied and gestured to the couple on the sofa. The wife paused for a moment, then bobbed her head shyly, and slipped from the room as quietly as she had entered.

"My Rivka reminds me that it is almost sunset, and the Shabbat will begin soon." He rose from his chair and smoothed down his vest. "Our Sabbath day is rather different in the Jewish Quarter than in other places. You see, our small Russian community looks upon each other as family, so we take our meal together every Friday evening, in the hall next to the synagogue. It is quite a festive occasion." He paused in consideration. "Would you like to join us, Monsieur and Madame Reinard? You would be most welcome."

Christine's sad countenance immediately brightened at the prospect. It had been months since she had had the opportunity to socialize with new faces, and if Ze'ev and Rivka's friends were as kind as they, she would be immensely cheered by the evening.

"I would love to," she stated, just as Erik simultaneously said "Thank you, but no." The pair looked at each other, and for the first time, Christine noticed that her husband was as loath to the idea as she was delighted by it. Disappointment coursed through her.

_Of course Erik would not want to go,_ she silently chided_. It was foolish of me not to remember. _

She tried to keep her face from falling, but Erik, observant as always, nonetheless saw her displeasure. He sighed and muttered a curse under his breath, then rose from the sofa.

"I trust, Gospadin Borochov, that your meal will be traditional, and that the hall will be very dark, with only the few Shabbat candles lit?"

The Russian grinned at the resigned husband. "Of course."

OOOOO

Indeed, the synagogue hall had plenty of dark corners for Erik to cling to and watch the festivities from afar. The minute they arrived with the Borochovs, he spotted a small table in the shadowed corner that would suit his needs perfectly, and settled into it for the rest of the evening.

At first his little wife had sat with him, reluctant to leave him by himself. After the Kiddush was said over the wine, the challah bread broken and passed, and the meal eaten (a stew concoction of some sort with meat, potatoes and beans), the fifty or so Russians began to leisurely mingle, walking from table to table to converse with one another. His angel watched the laughter wistfully, her eyes fixed upon the smiling faces and familiar touches. A pang of guilt shot through him at the idea that he could not give his wife the society she craved. Frustration began to take hold; he sighed and gestured to the people.

"Why do you not join them, Christine?"

She grasped his hand. "Erik, I wouldn't think of abandoning you—I know how you detest this. Besides, I would not be able to converse with them."

He waved her away. "Nonsense. I have spent my entire life watching crowds from afar; it will not put me out to do so now. As to the language barrier, you may find that some of them speak French."

She cast him a concerned look. "Are you certain?"

"Quite," he smirked. "Go now."

She smiled at her husband and slipped away from the table, making her way across the room to Rivka.

Erik had spoken the truth. He was much more content to watch his Christine as she gracefully moved about the room, greeting the ladies and gesturing to them in an effort to communicate. Though obviously self-conscious of her lack of language, she still managed to find a way to converse. A smile played upon his lips as he observed the women charading to each other about children and such. Her mannerisms were lovely; the quiet, gentle way in which she mingled, as if reluctant to draw attention to herself. With a start, Erik realized that he had not had much of an opportunity to study the way she behaved in society. He was not surprised at all by her passive style.

At last, Christine seemed to find a woman who spoke a little French, and latched on to her in relief. For the rest of the evening, the Russian woman served as a translator of sorts for his disadvantaged wife.

"You have loved her for a long time, haven't you?"

Erik whirled around to face the owner of the intrusive voice.

Ze'ev plopped into the discarded seat and leaned back, stretching out his wiry limbs. "That is why you despised Raoul de Chagny—still do, as a matter of fact."

Storms passed over Erik's eyes at the man's presumptions. "I suggest, sir, that you take care of your tongue. You know that I am not a man to be trifled with."

"I remember your confession to the priest very well, M. Reinard. You are a killer. So am I. You see, we have quite a bit in common, you and I: criminals who have become family men." He smirked at the masked man. "I thought you might appreciate bluntness to subtlety."

Erik said nothing, choosing to watch his wife move about the room. The Russian, however, was not put off by his cold, aloof manners. He sat with the man in silence. Finally, Erik spoke.

"Yes, I hated Raoul de Chagny. He was a spoiled child that already had everything in the world, yet took the one thing that I wanted." He nodded towards Christine. "Now she is _my_ wife, Gospadin, and I would just assume leave Chagny in his grave forever. I do not care about his dealings, his friends, or his brave deeds. It would not bother me if we never uncovered his secrets, or those documents that he hid away," he spat. "But it is important to Christine to know why the boy died. And I must admit, having those papers would give us a much stronger bargaining power."

"On the other hand, you do not know where to look for them," finished Ze'ev.

"Paris, I would assume." He smirked. "Chagny was not exactly the greatest thinker."

"He was a good man, though, who loved his wife and child."

"Don't you think I am aware of that?' the masked man snapped, and abruptly rose from the table. He was weary of being amongst people. Though he had managed to separate himself from the rest of the crowd, he could still feel them closing in, cutting off his air. The familiar black rage was beginning to seep into his mind—he could feel it. It was time to leave. He muttered an incoherent thank you to Borochov for his hospitality and strode across the room to seek out his wife.

OOOOO

Erik slouched in the corner of Christine's tiny bedroom, studying the shadows cast upon the walls by the fire waning in the iron stove. The air had become cold. Nights in Jerusalem were always chilly, but tonight, it seeped through their skin and into their bones.

Christine was asleep. The visit to the Jewish Quarter, combined with their travels in the hills earlier that day, had exhausted her. By the time he quietly slipped from his own bedroom to hers, she was already nearly unconscious. He had been tempted to selfishly wake her. He needed the comfort of her love that night…wanted to hear her cry out her devotion to him, and only him…so much so, that he had nearly slid his hands under her nightgown to awaken her with his touch.

Instead, he chose to watch her sleep, willing the blackness from his mind by replacing it with a softer, more peaceful image. He observed the gentle rise and fall of her chest, curls fanned about her white face and pillow, an arm gracefully draped over her midsection.

This was what he wanted. His…completely his. He would be damned is Raoul de Chagny, Henri David, Mas Quennell, or any other human being, living or dead, tried to steal what was his.

_I will kill them if they do, _he silently vowed. _Kill their body, kill their spirit, even kill the memory of them._

Erik slipped the white mask from his face and allowed the cool air to wash over his mottled features. He pressed his clammy palms to his eyes, once more fighting back the rage that swam there. There was no purpose in brooding away the dark hours until morning. It was late, and he should sleep. Sleep next to his beautiful wife…

Slowly rising from the stool, he stretched out his legs and strode over to the bureau to pull out a pair of Persian silk pants that he kept in Christine's room. He quickly stripped away the plain vest, shirt, and slacks he had worn to the Jewish Quarter and tossed them into the open drawer. The cold air teased his bare skin, causing him to shudder; he quickly slipped on the pants and crouched down next the stove to restoke the flames.

It was when he opened the stove grate that Erik noticed it. A tiny glint of white, barely visible under the old, scratched bureau to his left. He would not have spotted it at all, had the flare of the firelight not driven the shadows away. Reaching under the bureau, he grasped the object between his fingers. _It_ was a tiny piece of paper, tightly rolled into a cylinder and sealed with a minute dollop of wax. The wax was what caught his attention; a scrap of trash would not have an unbroken seal. Sliding his finger under the seal, he unrolled the small thing to reveal what appeared to be a hastily scrawled note, the handwriting precise, if a bit embellished. His eyes skimmed over the words:

_Little Lotte,_

_Death is but an illusion. When this ordeal is over, come find me. Forgive me for the madness. Ceska Obchodni Banka, Praha, Bohemia. Safe Box number 665._

_-R_

Erik stared at the note in disbelief. He read it several times over, the words blurring together as if written in some nonexistent form.

_It cannot be…it is not possible._ Erik, however—of all men—knew that it was indeed possible. The blackness came again, flooding into his mind in full force. He could not reason, not with the fog filling his brain and driving out logic. Crumpling the bit of paper in his fist, he moved to fling it into the fire. At the last moment, though, he growled in frustration and tossed it into the open drawer, not quite willing to destroy the note that could very well carry his death sentence.

He shook his head. It would not do to think on it now, with despair creeping into him, inch by inch. With a bewildered, angry cry, the man shoved the drawer closed and slammed the stove grate shut, then stalked over to his wife's bed and slipped beneath the covers.

Christine murmured something in her sleep; he wrapped a possessive arm about her waist and pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck.

And cursed Raoul de Chagny to hell.

* * *

­­­_A/N: Thanks so much for reviewing – I love feedback, and try to respond either by e-mail or message board to your questions._

_I will be posting something to my website for Frat tomorrow. I think, probably, the paintings that I based Ze'ev and Rivka's features upon._


	29. The Madness of Reason

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Phantomy-Cookies for sub-betaing! You are the dessert in a world full of blah food. Thanks also to The Scorpion for sub-betaing! (bows to the First Lady of Morbidity)_

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)_

**The Madness of Reason**

_Twang…twang…_

Erik randomly plucked at the strings of Charles Daaé's violin, breaking the silence with the dissonant melody. Leaning into the veranda chair, he settled his feet atop the roof ledge and tried to relax in the warm, April sun. Boredom had begun to settle into his mind. He abhorred boredom; the sheer lack of action was extremely perturbing.

She was late. Jean-Paul's lesson should have commenced a full half-hour ago, yet there was no sign of his young pupil. Christine had taken him to see the Borochovs and their babies in the Jewish Quarter, then to the orphanage; Erik had originally intended to accompany them, but a foul mood and a particular aversion to society that morning had induced the exasperated woman to leave him behind and take old Norry in his place.

At first he had been relieved to be excused from his duties; the prospect of a morning in peaceful solitude was immensely pleasing. With Nadir and Papi away at the orphanage as usual and Henri David keeping to his room, the chances of another human being interrupting his seclusion were slim.

Erik set the violin aside and rose from his chair, peering down upon the street below him. The markets were alive with activity. This was the day before the Christian holy week began, and many of the faithful were crowding into the markets, making their preparations—buying their food staples, candles, and such. If Christine and Jean-Paul were wading through the swarms of people, Erik would not be able to spot them. He sighed and fell back into his chair.

Despite their need for every inch of space to accommodate the worshippers, the sisters of the Ecce Homo managed to leave the occupants' apartments upon the fourth floor untouched, save for the scrubbings and pale pink flowers. This was a concession indeed, especially during the onslaught of the holy week. Erik wondered just how much of his Persian coffer's money the daroga had seen fit to bestow upon the pilgrimage house for their unobtrusiveness. It had to have been an extraordinary amount, and his funds were not bottomless. The last thing he wanted to do was touch a franc of Chagny money—it was out of the question. A withdrawal from Christine's account, even through the _Sûreté_, would cast unwanted eyes in their direction, and even if that were not the case, Erik would be damned before he would let his wife support him with Raoul's riches.

_Raoul de Chagny…_

Erik shook the persistent voice from his mind. Chagny was dead—that was the uncluttered truth of it. He had come to this particular conclusion that night in March, and he would reach the same conclusion again; there was no sense in dwelling upon it.

He glanced at his watch again. Christine was now fifteen minutes late. With an exasperated sigh, the man smoothed his hand over the violin one more time, then carefully placed it in its case along with the bow. Pushing himself up from the chair, he circled the wrought iron table, gathering up the sheets of music, notes, memory cards and pictures he had painstakingly created for use in the toddler's lessons. The teacher did not tolerate tardiness, wife or no. Cramming the papers into his satchel, he cautiously made his way to Christine's bedroom, glancing down the breezeway to ensure that no sisters were present on the fourth floor.

It was ridiculous, all of it—pretending to be his wife's uncle. He felt like some petulant schoolboy every morning when he slipped from Christine's side and stealthily returned to his own room, messing the covers on his bed to create the appearance that he had slept there. The sisters usually left him alone; angry stares and sharp words had produced the desired effect from the start, and the nuns no longer bothered with cheeriness and smiles. They simply saw him as M. Nitot's standoffish brother, and left it at that.

The man laid the violin and papers on the shelf, and then settled onto the bed, lost in thought.

How long could they live in the Ecce Homo convent, however, before circumstances called for yet another relocation? Perhaps that time had already arrived. Their patchwork household had been in Jerusalem for nearly four months, and neither had heard nor seen any sign of the men that had hunted them in London. A single correspondence from Murray via the _H.M.S. Inflexible_ assured him that there had been no resurfacing of the _Fraternité _since the Chagny household's flurried departure in January. Ze'ev and Rivka Borochov had managed to live undetected in the city for several years now—was it not possible that he and Christine could do the same, as well? They could purchase a small residence in one of the quarters and live quietly with their music as husband and wife.

_Or perhaps we could move to a different city entirely—start a new life. Venice… Amsterdam…New York, even. Gothenburg or Upsala? Christine might enjoy returning to her childhood Sweden._

_Prague?_

Erik grimaced at the thought of what—or who, rather—might await them there. Leaping up from the bed, he strode over to the bureau, slid open a drawer, and pulled out the crumpled note that he had carefully tucked under his clothing. He smoothed out the paper and read the words again:

_Little Lotte,_

_Death is but an illusion. When this ordeal is over, come find me. Forgive me for the madness. Ceska Obchodni Banka, Praha, Bohemia. Safe Box number 665._

_-R_

The note was as much a mystery to him as it had been the first time he read it. Now, at least, he knew where it came from. The night he had found it had been a sleepless one. Christine was deeply entrenched in a dream—thankfully, not one of the nightmares that plagued her so often. Careful not to wake her, he had risen from their bed, lit the oil lamp upon the small table, and made his way back to the bureau. He opened the drawer that contained her personal mementos…

And he had done so many times since, hoping that her possessions would reveal some small detail he had overlooked before. Guilt suffused his conscience as he once more rifled through her things, looking for the brooch she had spoken of to Ze'ev—now a familiar sight to him. He knew it was wrong of him to do so. As her husband, she should be able to trust him not to invade her privacy without permission. Yet every time he went through her belongings, it was because he found himself driven by something greater than the desire to do what was right: self preservation.

The piece of Bohemian jewelry was a rather grandiose affair, just erring on the other side of gaudy. Certainly not anything that Christine would ever wear; she enjoyed her pretty, dainty things, but nothing so bold as this.

The brooch consisted of a large cluster of garnets fashioned into a floral shape, set intricately in gold.

_Garnets for eternal love, _Erik smirked bitterly, and then flipped back the lid.

Two portraits. On the right was an older gentleman whom Erik presumed to be the elder Daaé. Here was a face worth examining. The portrait itself looked as though it had been done from a _carte-de-visite_ rather than a larger painting. His eyes were like his daughter's, though the rest of him was classic Scandinavian…flaxen hair, pale features…_Christine must resemble her mother more than her father,_ he speculated. World-weary lines were etched upon his face, though he did not look sad. His eyes had an unearthly quality about them—far away and whimsical, as if he were lost in a perpetual state of fancy.

_It is no wonder his daughter believed the Angel of Music nonsense for as long as she did, _he pondered, touching his finger to the familiar glazed eyes.

Raoul's was on the left, his face set in such utter seriousness, it was almost comical—his boyish features seemed much more suited to laughter than to solemnity. Erik tried to think of the last time he had seen Chagny. It was the day the notice in the _Epoque_ had appeared: "Erik is dead." The Comte had come in Christine's place to consecrate her lunatic teacher to the ground once and for all. Because Erik had dismantled his torture chamber, the boy and his two servants had been allowed to wander the lair and lakeside, searching for his body.

He had clung to the shadows, following Raoul along the water's edge. The boy had been alone—his small entourage was amusing themselves in the strange underground home—and Erik could have easily taken his life. And then Chagny had turned around and stared directly at him. His youthful face had been solemn then, as well.

Erik had retreated into the darkness before he gave in to his black desire to harm the boy...

He slid a fingernail under the portrait's gold setting and pried it from the brooch, once again studying the secret compartment Christine had spoken of. He held it up to the light from the window—it was still there. A telltale red, waxy substance stuck to the gold of the compartment—the same wax that had been used to seal the note. At some point, the note must have escaped the brooch and fallen under the bureau without Christine's knowledge. Thank God she had not seen it…

…_And she shall never see it…not until I know for certain whether the boy is alive or dead._

Erik unceremoniously snapped the brooch shut and returned it to the bureau drawer, suppressing the feelings of dread that had taunted him for a month now. Pulling the door open, he glanced over the rooftop veranda and breezeway. Still no sign of Christine or Jean-Paul. Concern began to creep into his mind. Striding to the edge of the roof, he anxiously peered down at the orphanage, his eyes seeking out his wife. He could see children darting back and forth in the courtyard, playing some sort of game. There was the daroga…and Jean-Paul. He breathed a sigh of relief. Christine would be there with her son; she had simply lost track of time.

_Mon Dieu, how that woman can exasperate a man,_ he glowered.

The man stalked back to their room, shut the door, and settled into the chair next to the window. Pushing back the crisp white curtain to watch the comings and goings upon the fourth floor, he took up his newest acquirement from the _Ma'ase SheHaya_ Bookstore: _Crime and Punishment._ Ze'ev Borochov had an irrepressible sense of irony. The man was intelligent and intuitive as well. He had handed the Russian novel to the masked man with a wry smile, enigmatically suggesting that he might find Dostoyevsky's musings upon "the promise of happiness through suffering" of interest.

Erik smirked as he flipped open the book. He had read _Crime and Punishment_ once, before he had met Christine. There were often days when his music would not come to him and nothing of interest was occurring in the aboveground world of the opera. It was in those times that he turned to his books. Admittedly, he had read the novel as he read the rest of the works of man—with calm detachment, merely as an observer studying the ways of a world that did not include him. Still, Raskolnikov's story had pricked what little conscience he had left; arrogance and scorn for the human race; alienation and insanity; his struggle to justify murder; and subsequent prison sentence. The story's parallels to his own life had been overwhelming at the time. Therefore, he had wholly scoffed at the work, labeling it as pious and not worth his effort.

As he read it again, however, he found himself identifying with the character in a way he had not been able to before. Raskolnikov's salvation came through his love for a good woman; it gave him something to hope for. In the end, that hope could have damned him just as it saved him.

Erik ran his fingers over the Russian words, unable to absorb them at the moment. His thoughts turned back to his wife—his own salvation.

_What would happen to our marriage if Raoul de Chagny were truly alive?_ Erik had thought through every single aspect that contradicted the possibility to the point of obsession. It wasn't the act of faking a death that seemed improbable—the magician of Nijni-Novgorod knew that it could be done. The gypsies had a great many secrets—a potion derived from a flowering plant in northern Africa was one of them. One would appear as though they were dead, their breath and heart slowed to an imperceptible rate. And with the help of a well-paid doctor and undertaker, a person could disappear forever. No, Raoul did not have to be intelligent to fake his death; there were those that could do it for him for the right price.

The greatest contradiction was that it simply wasn't consistent with the boy's character. No matter how much he abhorred Chagny for marrying his angel, Erik knew he was an honorable man. He had loved his wife and son. He was duty-bound to them, just as he was duty-bound to testify at the Trial of the Fourteen. Why would a man who valued honor fake his death and go into hiding, thus abandoning all that made him who he was?

_Then again, what if there was no other way?_ The hated voice of dissention slinked from his subconscious once more. _What if he had been forced to abandon his testimony, go into hiding, and had been planning to send for Christine and Jean-Paul all along? Didn't the note say as much? Yet Christine and Jean-Paul have been secreted away since the end of the trial…if Raoul was looking for them, he would not have been able to find them in London or Jerusalem. I have seen to it that they are nearly impossible to discover…_

Erik shook his head, chiding himself for the moment of weakness, and desperately clung to his greatest ally: reason. There was the fact that Chagny had sent Christine to his archrival for help, knowing full well that her angel still had a hold over her mind. If he were alive, why would he let her return to her teacher? No husband could ever be so secure in a woman's love as to purposefully drive his wife to the protective arms of another man without worrying that she would remain there permanently. Even the sainted Raoul would not do such a thing.

_Isn't it possible that Chagny truly had intended for his clever rival to put together the pieces of this puzzle, never assuming that his beloved wife would marry the monster she had fled those years ago? What if he wanted his wife and child back? What if…_

_What if Christine chose to return to her son's father?_

Sliding thin fingers through his black hair, he sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair to peer out the window. The rooftop was still empty.

The man growled in frustration. Something did not make sense; there was a piece missing to this grand plan of the Comte's that would cause the others to fall into place, he was sure of it. He just couldn't place his finger on it.

_There can be no certainty here in Jerusalem. Unfortunately, it looks as though a trip to Prague is required. _Erik closed his eyes and sighed, willing away the distasteful thought.

OOOOO

"_Albi tlawwa ya wa'di… Baddi tabibi ye dawini…"_

The small group of Palestinian children were scattered about the ivy-clad courtyard of the orphanage, their voices rising and falling to the gentle rhythm of the old folk song. Some of them clapped and shook their hands; others were content to sway back and forth to the music, too shy to draw attention to themselves. All glanced at Madame Garnier out of the corners of their eyes, seeking her approval.

"_Boset habibi teshfini ya eni…"_

Nadir slipped into the courtyard as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the children's performance. He spotted Christine sitting upon the stone bench as the boys and girls merrily sang for her, her eyes shining with delight. It was well past the time for Jean-Paul's music lesson to begin. Her child, however, sat upon her lap with rapt attention, soaking in every detail of the song.

The Persian strode over to the bench and silently nodded to the woman; she smiled up at her friend and slid over to make room for him.

"What are they saying?" Christine quietly asked.

"_Wel-bulbul nagha 'ala ghusn el-foll… Ah ya sha'i'an-nu'mani… Asdi ala'i mahbubi… Beyn el-yasmin wer-rehani ya eni beyn…"_

Nadir listened to the words, then whispered the translation. _"'The nightingale sang on the stem of the double jasmine, O anemones, O anemones. I intend to find my beloved, Between the jasmine and the basil.' _It is called 'El Bulbul', or 'The Nightingale.' A man is ill, and no doctor can cure him. Only the kiss of his beloved can heal him." He chuckled softly. "Only it is Friday, the holy day, so he will not kiss his beloved."

Christine laughed lightly with the daroga. Several of the children glanced in their direction and beamed, their spirits caught up in the joy of the song. One bold eight-year-old boy winked at the young woman and trilled an "r" in a birdlike fashion, causing the toddler to squeal and clap with joy. His mother smiled thoughtfully at her son, pressing her lips to the top of his dark head.

"Jean-Paul seems to be enjoying himself," Nadir said. "However, it does not take much to please him, so it seems."

Christine nodded. "He loves music. My greatest regret is not bringing it into his life sooner; an unpardonable crime, as his mother."

"He is only two and a half, Madame. I believe that it is not too late for him to learn. Speaking of learning…"

"His music lesson? Yes, I was just getting ready to take him back to Erik for it. The sisters gave him permission to play the convent's organ for Jean-Paul, and I dare say that my husband has been looking forward to it as much as my son."

The Persian flipped open his watch and held out the face for the woman to see, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "If that is that case, I should say that my friend is rather perturbed by now."

Christine gasped and leapt up from the bench, gathering up her little boy, his dingy white horse, and the sandals he had pulled from his feet. Whirling around to flee the courtyard, she nearly flew into Sister Helena, standing just behind them.

The nun's face was pale white…her eyes wide as saucers…mouth agape as if she wanted to say something, but could not find the words.

In alarm, Nadir realized what had caused the woman's shock, just as Christine did: she had referred to Erik as her _husband_, and the sister had most certainly overheard it.

The flustered woman did not know what to do. She opened her mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut. Shaking her head, she darted around the old woman before any questions could ensue, sprinting through the courtyard door.

Nadir could feel Sister Helena's eyes upon him. He nonchalantly rose from the bench and followed Christine, dodging the children and their games. After the nun recovered from her shock, she would most certainly demand an explanation, and he did not want to be around for interrogation when that happened.

_If they must have answers, let them go after Erik,_ he grinned, imagining his friend's reaction when he learned that they had been exposed as the imposturous, scheming, married couple that they were. _Perhaps it will be for the best,_ he mused. _Now Erik will have no excuse for avoiding the acknowledgment of his stepson._

A hand grasped the sleeve of his _abaya_, startling him from his musings. Before he knew what had happened, he found himself in possession of the very stepson. Christine pushed her son upon the Persian, along with his white toy horse.

"Thank goodness you were not still in the courtyard; I thought that Sister Helena would faint clean away!" She gave a nervous laugh. "_Je suis désoleé_, Nadir, but I must hurry. I need to speak with Erik before the rest of the convent discovers what we have been—" she cleared her throat delicately, "—that we are married. Papi should be in the common room with several of the children if you need help with Jean-Paul," she called over her shoulder, hurrying from the orphanage just as the sister emerged from the courtyard.

"Was that Mme. Garnier just leaving?" Sister Helena asked uneasily, her power of speech apparently restored.

The daroga nodded, pursing his lips to squelch the grin threatening to surface. "She had something that needed her attention." Jean-Paul determinedly reached for his _keffiyeh_; he neatly dodged the toddler's prying fingers, his eyes fixed on nun's wary face.

Sister Helena stared at the man. "The masked man is not really her uncle, is he?"

Nadir shrugged, glancing about for an escape route.

She sighed. "I thought not; I do, however, suspect he is the boy's father. Well, it is a relief to know she is not a widow, although I find it a touch disturbing that this lie has carried on as long as it has—"

"Sister Helena," the daroga interrupted. "I am sure that the lady in question will be happy to discuss this with you. Until then, I beg of you, breathe not a word of it." Before the flushed nun could respond, Nadir patted her shoulders and flew down the hallway, just as eager to evade the sister as Christine had been.

The Persian moved through the orphanage, glancing about for any sign of the maid or caretaker. For a moment, he considered returning to the convent. Knowing Erik and Christine, however, he thought it best to wait an hour or so.

"Khan!" Jean-Paul batted at the daroga's face again, demanding his attention. The man chuckled, grasped the toddler's little fist and shook it playfully. The boy squealed and squirmed in the man's arms until he was finally set upon the ground, and he scampered off towards the common room.

Nadir followed in his wake, forming "pinchers" with his hands to tease the boy. He strode into the common room, and stopped dead in his tracks.

A boy sat upon the ground, his knees tucked up to his chest. Tears streamed down his face as he bravely tried to stifle his sobs before they escaped from his lips. He could not be more than ten or eleven. Black hair, dark watery eyes and a thin frame—and he was the very image of his Reza.

Nadir Khan's breath caught in this throat. He watched as the boy bravely choked back his tears while a Palestinian woman knelt before him, carefully bandaging his foot. The child winced in pain. The Persian winced with him, pressing a hand to his heart as it ached for his lost son.

The woman murmured something to the child. Suddenly a smile spread across his face and he nodded, temporarily forgetting his throbbing ankle. She said something again, and the boy threw back his head and laughed, wiping away the tears that had spilled down his cheeks just moments ago. She laughed with him—a rich, beautiful sound that tugged at something buried deep inside the Persian. She had a lovely laugh.

Jean-Paul toddled over to the woman and pulled at her clothing. She reached out a pale hand, tenderly brushing the black curls from his forehead. Nadir started in realization; she was not Palestinian. She was Papillon Nitot.

Papi grasped the young Comte's hand and turned to face the Persian, her merry eyes peering at him from under her _mendil_. Blonde wisps framed her face; she pushed the strands away from her flushed cheeks and tucked them under her headscarf. Gone was the icy mask that had infused every action, every word since he had known her. She was warm, loving…a different creature from the miserable one of the fourth floor.

"Fouad was playing in the courtyard and twisted his ankle. He has been very brave, though." She nodded to the injured boy; he beamed under her praise. "I told him that he looks like a monkey when his face is scrunched up."

The daroga managed to recover from his shock, at last finding his voice. "I did not know you spoke Arabic," he said softly.

Papi laughed again. Nadir could not remember hearing her laughter before. She was very pretty when she laughed; he hoped she would do it more often, and it surprised him that he should feel so. Why had he never noticed how changed she was at the orphanage?

"Not very well at all! Fouad was probably giggling at my attempt to speak it. Father Jakob has been teaching me while the children are in their classes after you and Papa return to the convent. I wanted to be able to speak with the boys and girls because…" She glanced nervously at her feet, unsure of how to brooch the subject. "Because when the others return to Paris, I intend to stay here—at the Notre Dame de Sion."

Nadir started. "Why?" he whispered incredulously.

"Do you really need to ask why?" She raised her dark eyes to meet the Persian's. "I miss my son, M. Khan. The pain has become unbearable for me. I hear his laughter in my head; when I dream, it is of his arms about my neck, his tiny hands pressed to my face—" Her voice broke. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. "I am happy here, Monsieur, for the first time since Perri's death. At times, the children are the only thing that stands between me and madness." The woman held out her hand. "Please understand…"

He took her hand in empathy. "I understand better than you think, Mademoiselle," the man said quietly, his jade eyes reflecting her pain. "Does Christine know?"

She shook her head.

Nadir studied her face, watching as an embarrassed blush crept up her white neck and into her cheeks. At last, he released her hand. "I only ask one thing of you," he murmured.

"Yes?"

"Try to mend your friendship with Christine before you part, and put your bitter words to each other to rest. 'Write kindness in marble and write injuries in the dust.'"

Papi nodded, smiling warmly at her friend. "I shall miss your proverbs when you leave."

"Let us not talk of leaving then, Mlle. Nitot. Tell me, what other Arabic words have you learned?"

She laughed again. Nadir swore that jasmine tinged the air.

OOOOO

"Christine—"

The woman pressed her mouth to his, silencing his protest. She pulled the book from his hands and laid it aside, then settled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Erik shook his head and reached behind him to disentangle her hands from his hair. "You are late. Your son's music lesson was supposed to begin an hour ago."

She shrugged. "We shall simply have to reschedule it for this afternoon. Do not be sour." Burying her hands in his hair, she leaned forward and softly touched his lips again, carefully drawing him into the kiss.

Erik sighed into her mouth. _I'll be damned if she knows every single one of my vulnerabilities, _he wondered, understanding that he was fighting a lost battle.

"I am sorry to have worried you," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his.

He sighed again and admitted defeat. "Where is that little minion of yours?"

"I left him at the orphanage."

"Across the street?" Erik smirked. "Poor choice, my dear; they know you there, and he will be returned to you in no time, I am sure. It would have been better to have left him at the orphanage next to the Jaffa Gate."

Christine slapped him playfully. "Cruel man! I left him with Nadir. I knew that no one would be here now…"

"And finding me weak and armed merely with a book, you decided to attack me."

She grinned and leaned into him, her curls spilling about his face. "I missed my opera ghost," she murmured warmly. "Kiss me."

Erik was happy to oblige.

OOOOO

"I am afraid that I have done something rather bad." Christine pulled the blanket up over them and gazed at her husband's face, gauging his reaction to her declaration.

Erik glanced down at the woman sprawled across his chest, then let his head fall back against the pillow in laughter. "Ah! So you chose to waylay me with a preemptive strike. Brava, my angel. What have you done?"

"Sister Helena knows that you are my husband."

The man sat up abruptly, sending the woman tumbling to his side. He leapt from the bed and searched for his discarded clothing.

Christine rushed on. "It was an accident—I was speaking with Nadir, and I…I spoke before I thought. She was standing right behind us." The frazzled woman clutched at Erik's arm, her eyes pleading with his. "I know that I have put us in a dangerous position—you need not tell me so."

"_Merde_," Erik breathed, shaking his head. At last his shoulders slumped in resignation. "Do you wish to speak to her, or should I?"

His wife breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled. "If your idea of 'speaking with her' includes threats or lassos, then I shall deal with her. It is my mess—I can clean it up this evening."

Erik grimaced at her attempted humor and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back to their bed. _At least that is one less nun we must play to,_ he thought begrudgingly. He ran a finger along his errant angel's spine, feeling her relax against him. He would let Christine speak with Sister Helena about keeping the marriage secret; if that did not work, there were always other methods of persuasion, though Erik was loath to frighten the poor old woman. However, he could not take any chances with their safety—not when it was their aliases that had kept them hidden so well for so long. Hidden from the _Narodnaya Volya_, the _Fraternité_…

From Raoul de Chagny?

Another wave of dejection swept through him. How could he stomach it if that boy once more snatched away everything that was dear to him? He needed reassurance…needed to know once and for all that she was his and no other's, or it would torment him until he was mad. He needed to be the _only one_.

"Christine…Christine…do you love me?"

His wife smiled against his chest. "Oh my angel, I do."

"Do you love me more than him?"

"More than whom?" She peered up at her husband, puzzled by his odd behavior.

"Raoul. Do you love me more than Raoul de Chagny?"

Her eyes glazed over with some unreadable expression. "Yes. I love you more than I loved Raoul, so much more. Now, no more questions please. You are frightening me."

He breathed a sigh of relief and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Do you love me more than your father?"

Christine abruptly pulled away and stared at him, trying to read his face. "Erik, why are you doing this? I do not understand—"

"Answer the question, Christine!"

"Yes, I do!" she cried, covering her face with her hands. "Please do not ask me again."

Yet Erik pressed on, ignoring her pleas for compassion. He wrapped strong, possessive fingers around her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She was crying. _Stop…stop now, before you do something you will regret, _the small voice of reason cried inside of him. _You know what her answer will be…_

He could not.

"And Jean-Paul…tell me that you love me more than your son."

The woman shuddered and squeezed her lids shut, several tears spilling from her lashes. The soft lines of her face deepened in pain; she turned away from his cold, driven expression.

"Christine—"

"Stop!" she shrieked, her eyes suddenly wild and angry. "Stop! No more. This is cruel, Erik. Never ask me to choose between you and my son again. I love you both."

"Christine—"

She violently pushed him away and leapt up from the bed, scooped up her dressing gown, and wrapped it around her body. Gathering up her clothing, she stared lividly at the man.

"I do not know what has been troubling you these weeks, Erik; however, you have chosen not to tell me. So tonight, I choose my son instead of you."

And with one final bruising glare, she swept from their room to that of her child's.

OOOOO

Erik flipped onto his side in aggravation, the bedding tangling about his legs. The heat of the day had long ago receded with the sun, yet he could not sleep. With the bed entirely to himself for once, he should have had no trouble finding slumber. He had slept alone all of his life; if anything, he should be restless when she _was_ next to him.

On the nights when sleep had evaded him, he would take to roaming the streets like the ghost that he was. Perhaps he would do so now.

Pushing back the blankets once and for all, he slipped on his dark _thob_ and _abaya_, carefully concealing the white of his face under his hood. Taking Christine's lasso from its hiding spot on the top of the shelves, he coiled it at his waist under his cloak, just in case it was needed. Just in case…

His heart clenched at the outside chance of using it once more. _Drive the restlessness from your limbs…feel the night air against your skin and the smell of death upon the breeze…_

His fingers itched for blood tonight. The fierce man strode to the door and wrenched it open, anxious to give his dangerous energy wings.

A soft moan sounded from the room next to his—Jean-Paul's room. He paused for a moment, waiting for it to come again. Nothing. With a shake of his head, he once more started into the dark.

There it was again…Christine was slipping into one of her nightmares.

"_Merde. Damn!"_ Erik cursed quietly, his desires warring with one another. The night called to him; it pulled at his senses, breathing power and life. The need to bask in its blackness rose up in him like a wicked addiction. He would quench his demons on the streets of Jerusalem—Christine would be fine for one evening.

Another hushed sob...

Erik pressed his forehead to the cool wood of the door, listening to her voice. Her cries echoed in his mind, along with his promises.

_Never leave me alone! I shall die if you do…_

"Then I shall die with you," he murmured, and stepped away from the door. Wrenching the lasso from his waist, he tossed it back onto the shelf. He swung his cape from his shoulders and carelessly laid it over the chair, loosened his sandals and kicked them away, and quietly crept into Jean-Paul's room.

His wife lay on her side next to her little son, an arm draped protectively over his body. Her lips rested against his soft curls; one of his fists innocently clenched and unclenched the white cotton of her nightgown. She whimpered again and the boy stirred, hovering on the edge of consciousness.

Erik knelt next to the bed.

"Christine…Christine…"

"Mmmm."

He reached out a long finger and traced her jaw line, tugging at a wayward curl. Christine's restless body went lax at the gentle caress, and slowly, her sleepy eyes opened.

"Angel, forgive me," he murmured. "I was selfish. I swear that I shall never force you to choose between us again."

She smiled at her husband. Erik picked up her hand, entwining his fingers through hers. His eyes fell upon her sleeping boy. The child's small chest rose and fell gently as he slipped into oblivious dreams. _A child…simply a little boy, innocent and artless, completely dependent upon his mother._ He shook his head at the edacity of his prior actions.

"I will try to do better by your son." He thought for a moment. "Would he like to see the camels upon the Mount of Olives, do you think?" His eyes sought hers in the darkness.

Christine abruptly sat up from the bed and wrapped her arms around the man's neck, burying her face in the warmth there. At length, she pulled back.

"Yes, very much." She kissed his cheek. "Maybe you could take him tomorrow morning, while the Nitots, Henri and I attend mass. It is Palm Sunday, you know, and I would rather not have to carry Jean-Paul through the crowds of people. Unless…" She glanced up at him through lowered lashes. "…you wanted to come with us?"

Erik stared at her as if she were mad.

She shook her head, hiding her disappointment. "I thought not. It couldn't hurt to ask," she quipped, and shrugged prettily. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. Back to bed."

Christine tensed under his hands and anxiously sucked in her lower lip, pondering some great thing. At last she whispered low words into his ear.

"Let me come to bed with you, Erik."

Her pleading eyes met his. The man sighed and pushed a dark curl behind her ear, a smile playing upon his lips.

"Of course."

He did not deserve such happiness.

OOOOO

The gatekeeper leered at the three cloaked men before him, his eyes snapping with avarice. It was a moonless night—a night that sheltered cutthroats and criminals. These foreigners would not want to wander about Suleiman's massive stone wall for too long. The Lion's Gate was the safest place to enter the city—much safer than Herod's Gate or the Damascus Gate, which were eternally haunted by the poor of Jerusalem. The strangers' expensive clothing and obvious unfamiliarity with the land would make them easy targets.

"_Matha tureed_?" he hissed, his gold teeth glinting in the torchlight.

The man on the right cleared his throat authoritatively and stepped forward to deal with the gatekeeper. A stream of some strange language erupted from his mouth—French, he thought. The Arab sat back and sneered at the man, shaking his head.

The thin person in the middle spat harsh words to the rambling man. He turned cold eyes upon the gatekeeper, his lips twisting malevolently, and spoke in slow, perfect Arabic.

"What the Marquis de Bourges was struggling to explain was that his brother has been kidnapped, and the perpetrators are believed to be hiding in the city. We request that you either send for, or take us to the proper Ottoman authorities at once."

"Well now," the gatekeeper smirked, "there is a price for my help. How much do you think would compensate a man for leaving his post and risking his job?"

The thin man grasped the gatekeeper by the throat before he could react. "You fool!" he growled. "This kidnapper is a dangerous killer! He has assassinated many important Turkish men in service to Persia, and he may do so again. If nothing else, tell us where to find him. He should not be difficult to find—he wears a mask."

The gatekeeper's face drained of all color. Yes, he remembered this particular man who had nearly slit his throat four months ago. How could he forget the cruel, hateful glare…cold eyes. A hand involuntarily went to his neck at the memory of the icy blade. The masked man had sliced his cheek in warning…

"Very well, _Sadik_," he said resolutely. For 20 liras, I shall take you to the Turks."


	30. Tower of Babel

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks to Celeb for assisting me with the Turkish phrases. It's not every day that you pop in to a chat room, ask if anyone speaks Turkish, and find someone who does! The English translations are listed at the end of the chapter, for curious minds._

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)_

_Some of you may have noticed I have started a new story, entitled **Golden Day.** This will be a side project until Fraternité is finished, then I will hit it full force. It's going to be a fun one!_

**

* * *

Tower of Babel**

"I want."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No! Enough, Jean-Paul."

"I want the fig!" The boy leaned precariously away from his perch on Erik's shoulders, his tiny fingers grasping for the candied figs on display. Several vendors at the Dung Gate peered at the man and his little boy from behind their carts.

Erik sighed and tightened his grasp upon the petulant child's knees. "Your mother would be very unhappy to learn that you are being bad, Jean-Paul. Do you want me to tell her that you have been bad?"

The boy shook his head.

"Then I suggest you cease your whining."

Erik heard the boy stifle a sob. _Just like his mother_, he smirked, and enjoyed the brief respite of silence.

In reality, Jean-Paul had been well behaved during their entire morning together. The camels at the Mount of Olives had enthralled his young mind, just as Christine had predicted. He had squealed and clapped in delight at their knobby knees and forlorn faces. The colorful tassels and bells attached to their saddles jingled as they moved about their corrals, causing the toddler to giggle with laughter.

As he had witnessed Jean-Paul's innocent joy, Erik could not help but smile; in truth, he had been secretly glad that Christine had gone away to mass, leaving the two of them to their adventure.

Now, on the other hand…

"I want oooonne!"

The man grimaced, his words sharp and impatient. "Sometimes we do not always get what we want, Jean-Paul, no matter how aggressively we go after it."

He paused in thought, the feel of Christine's gentle embrace from earlier that morning still fresh in his mind.

"And sometimes," he murmured, "we are handed what we want, after we have given up hope of ever receiving it."

Erik absently touched the scrap of paper tucked under his white _abaya_—Raoul's note. Christine's note, really, for it was addressed to her. It was time for him to do something about it. After his jealous ravings and his angel's frightened tears the previous day, he had to find a way to lay his doubt to rest before the madman he had once been reclaimed his mind. He would speak to Ze'ev; ask about his days with Raoul in Prague. Perhaps the Russian could shed some light on Chagny's plans for his family.

"_My_ family," he whispered possessively.

The boy sat quietly in confusion, then patted Erik's _keffiyeh_-clad head. "_Sil' plais_?"

Erik sighed in resignation and swung his burden down to the ground, knowing full well he could no longer chide Christine for spoiling her son. "Very well, you may have _one_." He nodded to the merchant and handed him a coin. The man placed a fig in the toddler's hand, then offered one to his customer. Erik declined and gazed down at the child.

"Doesn't your _Maman_ normally tell you to say '_Merci_'?"

Jean-Paul nodded and removed the fig from his mouth. "_Merci_, Papa!"

The man stiffened. "No, you may call me 'Erik'."

"Papa!"

"Erik."

The devious boy grinned at the game. "Papa!"

"Stubborn child! Now you must call me 'Monsieur'." He scooped up the toddler and placed him on his shoulders.

They moved through the gate and into the Jewish Quarter, along the edge of the ancient western wall. The streets were rather empty on this Palm Sunday morning. Save for the Christian Quarter, most of the city dwellers had chosen to remain at home and avoid the onslaught of worshippers that would pour from the churches and into the markets once the masses concluded.

Erik slipped down a side street and to the _Ma'ase SheHaya_ bookstore. He found to his dismay that the door, which normally stood open during business hours, was closed and locked. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It was not like Ze'ev Borochov to deviate from his carefully crafted routine. Lifting Jean-Paul from his shoulders, he settled the boy in one arm and warily proceeded down the alley to the adjoining residence. He knocked on the door…no answer. After a moment he tried again; when no reply came, he tested the handle.

It swung open.

"Gospadin?…Gospazha?" Only the quiet sound of Jean-Paul's breathing found his ears. Something was not right; the tension in the small home was almost palpable. Erik set the child down and securely tucked him behind his tall frame, then inaudibly slid the Persian dagger from its sheath under his _abaya_.

As he moved from room to room, his sharp gold eyes scanned every dark corner, missing nothing. He stopped and listened. There….a rasping sound, coming from the pantry…someone gasping for air. He warily reached for the door handle…

"Papa?" came the small, unsure voice behind him.

Erik spun around, then cursed as he tucked the dagger behind his back. He put two fingers to the boy's lips and shook his head, his eyes firmly demanding silence from the child. Jean-Paul shrank back from the man's hand and wrapped his arms tightly about his Cesar horse, frightened by the intensity before him.

All of a sudden, the pantry door flew open and Erik felt some hard thing strike the back of his head. His vision blurring, he flung a hand to the floor to steady himself, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Somewhere behind him, he heard a woman's cry of rage. Before she had a chance to hit him again, he whirled around, grasped both of her wrists and shook them, forcing her to drop the heavy object. A jar of preserves crashed to the ground, glass and blood-red jam smattering across the floorboards.

Erik breathed a sigh of relief: Rivka Borochova was his attacker. Her eyelids were squeezed shut in terror, her body going limp and sinking to the ground in his grasp. A string of rapid Russian flew from her lips as she shook her head.

"Gospazha Borochova. Rivka, open your eyes." Erik gently took the rattled woman's shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

She slowly opened her eyes and peered up at the man. Realization flooded into her and she slumped against the wall, pent-up air whooshing from her lungs.

"Sir," she said in breathless Russian, "I…I am sorry I hurt you. I did not know it was you; I thought they were here to kill me…" she glanced into the pantry at her two squalling infants, swaddled in blankets. "And the babies. I had to save them," she croaked.

Erik tightened his grip on her shoulders, his voice calm and soothing.

"Who, Gospazha?"

Her voice turned cold. "Who else? Ze'ev has eyes and ears all over the city—I am sure you know that. Three men came into the city last night and asked to speak to the Turkish authorities, so we were told. They asked for help in locating Sergei Degaev and the Comtesse de Chagny, in exchange for information about a masked assassin that has long eluded the Ottomans." She stared at him with knowing eyes. " 'The Lover of Trapdoors', they called him. They said he murdered a priest."

Erik released her shoulders and stumbled backwards, shocked.

"How?" he murmured, absently shaking away Jean-Paul as he whimpered and tugged at his sleeve.

Rivka laughed cynically. "How? Who knows _how_, exactly? Ze'ev warned you that those murderers have connections throughout Europe. They are patient—take their time to plan before they ruthlessly make their move. All of the time you have been in Jerusalem living a life of ease with your new wife and child, they were looking for your weaknesses, uncovering your past. And you—" she threw her head back, her voice becoming hysterical. "You led them right to us. To Ze'ev and our babies!"

Erik shook her again, his own fear rising with hers. "Tell me where your husband is," he ordered.

She turned her face from his.

"Tell me!" he shouted.

"He went to the convent to warn you and the Comtesse nearly an hour ago, and told me to hide underground." She pointed to the opening in the floor of the cellar. "He said that Raoul de Chagny would have wanted—"

Erik leapt up from the ground, retreating from the woman as if she had scalded him. Pacing about the room, he desperately tried to think of what to do next. He glanced at the clock upon the wall: Eleven thirty. Christine would be at the Palm Sunday mass for another half hour before she and her household returned to the Notre Dame de Sion. If he could somehow intercept her before they reached the convent, they could slip away amidst the crowds of celebrators without being spotted.

Thirty minutes was not a lot of time.

Sasha began to whimper. Rivka scrambled to her feet and scooped up her children, shushing the little girl.

"Gospazha, do you have a lantern?"

She nodded and left the closet for a moment, gently placed her children in their kitchen bassinet, and returned with two lanterns and a box of matches.

Erik took them from her trembling hands, struck a match and lit one, then tucked the box under his _abaya._ Holding the light high, he glanced through the open hidden door in the ground of the pantry, into the darkness. Suddenly, it struck him exactly where the tunnel led. Ze'ev had obviously planned ahead.

"Are you familiar with the old Roman roads underneath the city?" he called to her as she returned to the kitchen for her children.

Rivka nodded. "Very few are, but Ze'ev made certain that I knew how to find my way out of the city, in case something like this should happen," she said proudly. Then her face softened. "I wanted to wait until he returned, though…"

Erik firmly took her elbow, in no mood to battle with the woman. Not when Christine needed him. "No, absolutely not."

Rivka's face contorted in disapproval at his sharp words, her resolve to wait only increasing.

With a sigh, he released her elbow. Invoking his most mesmerizing, cajoling voice, he leaned into her, his face inches from hers. "Your husband will not want anything to happen to you and your children, Rivka. Think of how much grief it would bring him, should the _Narodnaya Volya_ find you here…"

The woman hesitated, then slowly nodded, clutching her babies closer to her. "Yes…yes, of course. You are right…"

He pulled back to study her face, his powerful gold eyes finding hers. "In any case, he will be moving through the old Roman streets, making his way back to you. We will most certainly meet him down there, if we are traveling towards the convent. It would be better for him to not come all the way back…"

Rivka nodded again, this time with conviction. "Yes. Yes, he will meet us down there. We must leave at once."

Erik smiled at the woman, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes, then picked up the wide-eyed Jean-Paul and swept into the darkness. With toddler in one arm and lantern in the other, he managed to steer Gospazha Borochova down the stairs and into the tunnels, his piercing eyes never leaving her face, until they were well into the black streets.

Along the ancient stones they tread, both as silent as the grave, weaving their way through the labyrinth of passages that spanned the entire old city. Erik moved as rapidly as their young burdens would allow; there was no time to lose. Even now, he could see Mas Quennell combing through the Ecce Homo convent, his lips twisting in hatred as he advanced towards an unsuspecting Christine, his fingers clutching a rope…

Erik cursed and quickened his pace, now heedless of the mother trailing along behind him or the frightened child's arms tightening around his neck. Ten minutes had already slid by. He had to find his angel before they did—

"Rivka!" A dark shape emerged from the gloomy passages and sprinted towards them, nearly sliding down the rock path they had been climbing. "Thank God, thank God!" he cried, pulling his wife and children to him. He held them to his chest, relishing the feel of his precious family.

"I have just come from the convent, Monsieur," Ze'ev stuttered breathlessly, turning to Erik. "The outside is crawling with Ottoman police; every entrance is guarded by at least two men, waiting for you and your household to return. The sisters have barred them entry into the convent, but I daresay they will grow impatient and demand to search the rooms before long."

Erik nodded, his face grim. "My wife is still away, then?" Jean-Paul squirmed in his grip and he let the boy slide to the ground, keeping an eye on him as he toddled over to Ze'ev.

"Yes. I saw no sign of her, or the others. However, there were three men present, with the Turks. One was a People's Will member—Russian. The second was the Marquis de Bourges, Michel David."

"Henri David's elder brother," Erik sneered. "And the last was Mas Quennell, I assume."

Ze'ev nodded. "He seems to be the man leading this raid—and very put out with coming up empty-handed, it appeared."

A snarl stole its way through Erik's features, rage bursting from his veins and contorting his face until a vicious growl tore from his throat and echoed throughout the chambers. He spun around and sent a hand flying against the stone wall, his white _abaya_ swirling out behind him like angel's robes—so unlike the devil's face that rested against the mottled rock. He tried to still the fury-infused racing of his mind. Reason…he had to reason. Another angry cry escaped his lips. Why had he let them find Christine in Jerusalem? They should have left the city long ago, but instead, he had lingered in the warm bliss of denial too long, waiting until it was too late. And he was waiting too long, now.

Erik pulled back from the wall, his gaze hardening with dogged determination. "Ze'ev, you said that the Turks have not yet entered the convent?"

The Russian nodded.

"Then the inside entrance should not be guarded," he thought aloud. He scooped up Jean-Paul and started along the path again. Eighteen minutes…He had time to slip up to the fourth floor; retrieve his lasso, music, and bank notes for passage back to Europe, and catch Christine as she left the Holy Sepulchre mass. It could be done…

"Borochov, take your wife and children to the Lithostratos, under the convent," Erik commanded. "It is next to the cistern—do you know it?"

Ze'ev nodded.

"I shall meet you there, once I have found my wife." Erik thought for a moment, then handed Jean-Paul to Ze'ev. "Take the boy, as well—it will be safer for him."

Ze'ev held out his arm for the child. "From the Lithstratos, we can take the old road out of the city and into the Kidron Valley; the city gates are most likely guarded. From there, we make for Acre. Where are you planning to go once we reach Europe?"

Erik hesitated, then gritted his teeth in resolve. "Prague. We shall go to Prague."

OOOOO

Sunlight burst into the old crusader church as the doors were thrown open, bathing the age-darkened walls in yellow, driving out the shadows. Christine shielded her eyes as worshippers swarmed towards the exit, their bobbing heads and waving palm fronds a jumbled silhouette against the brightness. The organ pounded behind her, sending the mass-goers on their way with a final song of triumph, which only drove the chattering voices to deafening proportions.

Confusion swept her along; she did not even know where Henri and Norry were, until a hand grasped her elbow and steered her through the doors.

When the hand did not relinquish her arm, however, a knowing dread drove away the confusion and settled into its place. She tried to glance at her captor, but a second hand wrapped around her neck, forcing her head down.

"Christine, come with me," a voice hissed in her ear. "And do not look up. They will see you, if you do."

"Erik," she cried, "Where is my son? What in heaven's name—"

"Safe," he interrupted, leading her away from crowds and into an empty side street. "Where are the others?"

"They were just behind me."

He glanced around the corner. "There. There they are. Stay here, Christine," he commanded, pushing her firmly against the rough wall, his glittering eyes warning her that something was indeed wrong.

"Erik, what—" she stuttered, but he was already gone.

She knew, though. She had seen the fear in his eyes, and knew that _they _had come to Jerusalem. Her throat constricted; suddenly, the air about her was too thick to breathe. It filled her nostrils and choked her, drowned her with an overwhelming sense of terror. Mas Quennell was looming before her with his cruel eyes and twisted mouth… the lasso…it was tightening about her neck…

"Christine!" Erik grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "Angel…Angel, look at me," he said more gently, his frantic eyes seeking hers. "Yes, they are here, outside the convent. I saw Mas and Michel David with my own eyes, just moments ago."

She turned away from him, faintly seeing the white faces of Norry and Henri over his shoulder.

"Christine, we have to move quickly. M. Nitot said that his daughter and the daroga are at the orphanage. Someone must go back for them—someone who knows the underground roads." Her eyes slid back to his. "The Borochovs are waiting underground for us with Jean-Paul, in the Lithostratos. Do you remember where it is?"

She nodded, sense slowly filtering back into her. "Yes," she murmured. "The Lithstratos; the Roman plaza, just above the cistern. Our cistern…"

"Good girl." Erik pressed his lips to her forehead and took her hand, leading her along the edge of the towering church, her two companions fast at their heels. They rounded another corner that led to a narrow alleyway, and a small metal grate came into view.

"This leads to the Roman road system under Jerusalem," Erik explained as he wrapped his thin fingers around the bars and hauled it away from the opening.

M. David stared at the filthy hole, sniffing in distain. "You cannot expect us to climb down there, Monsieur. This entire escapade is absolute nonsense! Why, the idea of running from my own brother is so ludicrous—"

Erik grabbed the _avocat_ by the scruff of his neck and shoved him murderously against the wall. "Your brother, sir, would just as soon kill you rather than betray his precious _Fraternité_," he hissed in the lawyer's ear.

Before Henri could protest, he found himself pushed through the narrow opening and into the dirty tunnel.

Norry scooted through the opening next, then took Christine's hands and helped her slide down into the path. Last came Erik, his sandaled feet shifting precariously on the slippery rocks as he pulled the heavy grate back into place. Leaping down from the ledge, he took up the satchel and lantern he had left at the base of the slope.

The four flew down the road, the drums and cheers of the Palm Sunday processionals just above their heads echoing through the underground. The paths under the Holy Sepulchre were much narrower and rougher than the ones surrounding the Lithostratos, as they were still in the process of being excavated. Every now and again, Christine would bang her toe on a rock that had not been cleared away and stumble. Then Erik would catch her elbow and help her find her footing again, his steady hand there to keep her from falling. So sure, so sheltering…

The path widened again, and Erik came to a halt. Pausing for a moment to gather his bearings, he took a sharp left and led them into the Lithstratos, where the shadowed forms of Ze'ev, Rivka, and Jean-Paul awaited them.

Erik nodded to the man. "Gospadin Borochov: Messieurs Nitot and David. They shall be your traveling companions for the next several days, until our rendezvous in Acre."

The men tentatively shook hands, each careful to hide the fear furrowing their brows and dampening their palms.

"M. Reinard, they are close," Ze'ev whispered hurriedly. "Not a minute ago, Rivka and I heard shouting just outside the door at the top of the stairs. From what I could hear, the Turks were going to find lanterns and make their way into the underground. We do not have much time."

All went silent as they listened for the tell tale voices. Only the gentle lapping of the water in the cistern below could be heard, the sound oddly soothing in the dark cavern. And then the shouts came; so faint they would be missed by those not listening for them.

"…_Mas Quennell nerede?"_

"_Sahsiyet bulmak oteki Francizca pitch!"_

"…_onlar ar alt gecit, sonraki e gol…"_

"_Itouulu itt!"_

For a moment, they stood still with shock, their predicament weighing heavily upon their shoulders. And then all started speaking at once as their fear was spurred on by confusion.

Norry grasped Erik's arm. "Monsieur, my daughter," the man cried, his old eyes frantic with worry. "You swore that you would go back for her. We cannot leave yet—"

"—no time! They must be left behind—"

"—at the orphanage, just across the street! Let me go with you, Monsieur—"

"—cannot go back up, the Turks!"

"—utter foolishness! My brother would never—"

"Bah! You are a fool, Henri—"

"—cannot be trusted, I say! Delusions, paranoia—plain daft—"

Christine put her hands to her ears and slowly backed away as if in a dream, Norry's words still echoing in her head…_You swore you would go back…they are at the orphanage…_It was all happening too fast. She couldn't think, couldn't grasp what was going on. Just minutes ago, she had been in mass...

"Enough!" She heard Erik bellow above the chaos. "You!" He pointed at Norry, his patience snapped. "You are old, and will only be a hindrance. I will go for the daroga and your daughter, and you will go with Christine." He turned angry eyes upon M. David, sending the man recoiling against the wall. "And you! I should slit your throat here and now," he hissed, "to save your brother the trouble. Worthless! If you bring any harm to my wife, I will show you no mercy."

Then Erik was at her side, looping something around her waist. He pulled her sash tight again and patted it into place, then lifted her skirt and tucked some cold metal object into the top of her stocking. Slipping his satchel over her head, he pulled out a small brown coin purse and tucked it under his _abaya._

"There is more than enough money in the bag to keep you comfortable for a long time, if you should need it. Clothing, residence, food; whatever you should want for. I also managed to obtain a few of your smaller possessions before the authorities found our quarters. I am sorry, but I was not able to take your father's violin."

She tried to meet his eyes; he avoided her gaze, instead glancing just over her shoulder.

"You…you are leaving me behind?" she whispered incredulously.

He continued on, as if he had not heard. "Your lasso is at your waist, just in case. I have given you my Persian dagger, as well. You are more than proficient with both weapons—just remember not to hesitate before striking."

"No!" Christine grasped her husband's arm. "You promised me! You swore that you would never leave me alone."

"Christine," Erik choked, pulling the woman to him, his defenses crumbling. His fingers tangled in her soft hair as he pressed her face to his shoulder. "Angel, I am not leaving you alone. Look behind you." He nodded towards the gathering of people silently observing them.

She shook her head, burying her face in the soft folds of his _abaya_.

"Christine." He brushed a thumb along her jaw line and lifted her face to his. "Now is the time to be strong—I know you can be—I have watched you time and again. That night in the London cellar. Your mastery of a punjab lasso. Capturing a husband. You have a son."

He smiled faintly. And then his face became grim.

"Understand, my wife—if we leave Nadir and Papi behind, the Turkish police will do horrible things to them. I know—I have seen it with my own eyes." His teeth gritted at some long ago memory. "Once, the daroga risked his life to give me freedom. I left him behind, forgot him while he suffered in prison for me. I cannot do such a thing again."

Christine searched the fiery gold of his eyes. At last she nodded.

Erik sighed and pulled the woman to him again, kissing her cheeks, hair, lips. He held her for a moment as if engraining the feel of her in his memory, then let her slide from his arms. "If we do not find each other in Acre, I will come to you in Prague."

"How? Where?"

"The St. Charles Bridge, in two weeks' time." He turned to go, and then halted, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"Christine, if for some reason I do not make it to Prague—" He put a finger to her lips to silence her protest. "If I do not find you…"

Erik grasped her hand and pried her fingers open, placing a small, white piece of paper in her palm.

"This note—it is yours. I took it, and you never saw it." He tucked a curl behind her ear, his eyes searching hers. "Angel, I cannot say with certainty _who_ is on the other side of this note. If it is him—" the man's voice broke "—he will care for you and Jean-Paul, as he always has. If it is not..." he shook his head. "Please be careful."

Christine opened the note and skimmed over the words, her eyes swimming with tears. Slowly, her fingers crumpled around the bit of paper and she thrust it into the satchel, her resolve strengthening.

"I love you, Angel."

Erik closed his eyes. When they opened, a single tear slid down his cheek.

"I love you, Christine. You have made me happy."

And with those parting words, he wrenched himself from her gaze and fled down the second Roman road, towards the orphanage.

She watched his retreating form as it was swallowed by the darkness, frozen in place until she could no longer hear his footfalls. At last, she turned to her companions and reached for her little son. Holding him close, she exhaled a shuddery breath, set her shoulders, and motioned down the first road.

"Gospadin Borochov, if you would be so kind as to lead us out of the city."

Ze'ev nodded and started down the path to the Kidron Valley, his lantern held high.

OOOOO

It was not the cries of the children that warned Nadir and Papi of the danger that was closing in upon them. A scream or a wail was not an uncommon thing at the Notre Dame de Sion's orphanage. Many of the children came from tragic backgrounds in which their parents had been slaughtered in some gruesome way for being at odds with the Ottoman Empire.

However, when several of the children in the courtyard began to cry "The redcaps…the redcaps have come for us," Nadir knew that trouble had sprung upon them with an unrivaled alacrity. The Turks' shouts of "_Francizca kashar nerede? E Iranli ile onun_" only confirmed his suspicions that he and Mlle. Nitot were indeed the objects of their pursuit, and there would be no easy escape for either one of them.

Grabbing the maid's hand, he put a finger to his lips and silently pulled her from the third story classroom where he had been assisting her in her Arabic studies. Pressing his back to the wall, he peered through the banister bars into the courtyard below. Seven Turkish soldiers gathered there, resplendent in their blue uniforms and red fezes, their rifles cocked and ready.

Nadir muttered a curse and flew along the hallway, towards the front of the orphanage. Slipping into an empty corner room, he moved to the window and pulled back the curtain, examining the streets below. Just as he had feared: each door was guarded by at least three men. They were trapped on the third floor of the building. He felt Papi's hand begin to tremble in his.

"The children," she whispered, her face a deathly white. "Will they harm the children? If it is us that they want, perhaps…"

Nadir shook his head. "They will do what they will do, Mademoiselle, whether we turn ourselves in or not." He released her hand and turned to the window again, studying the ledge just outside. It was slim, but it might be large enough for two people to stand. The gilding on the corner of the building jutted out just so, effectively concealing the side ledge from the busy Via Dolorosa. And the side street was narrow enough that anyone peering up to the third floor would not see two people perched on the stone ledge. If they could hide there until the soldiers left, then double back…

Nadir glanced over the glass pane with frantic eyes, looking for a way to open it. He tried to slide the window open, but it would not budge. He examined the frame…no locks, no bolts…his fingers ran along the outer seal. It was painted shut.

"…_Bakmak dolayi onlari ust katlar…"_

The sound of boots tromping up the stairs of the orphanage echoed through the hallway. Doors began to open and close, one by one. The Turks would soon be upon them…

"Please!" Papi whispered, her voice edged with fright. "Hurry, they are coming!"

Digging the tips of his fingers into the paneling, the Persian desperately scraped at the thick paint until his fingers were splintered and bleeding. It was no use; the only difference he had made was to leave tell-tale traces of blood upon the wood panels.

"…_Karsilastirmak e daire!…"_

Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and shoved him back, nearly flinging him to the ground. Nadir glanced up to see Erik towering above him, his normally crisp white clothing caked in dirt and grime. The band for his _keffiyeh_ was missing and his headscarf was haphazardly flung over his shoulders, his dark hair clinging to his sweaty face. He reached under his _abaya _and drew out a small knife. Running the blade along the edge of the windowpane, he slit the thick layer of paint, working it around the wood panel and prying it apart until the glass slid open.

Another bellow…the voices were just next door, flying through the room…

"For the love of God, Nadir," the masked man hissed, "are you just going to simply stand there, or are you going to escape?"

The daroga sprang forward and grabbed Papi by the waist, helping her out onto the ledge. Tucking his robes up, he hoisted himself up through the window and scooted onto the rooftop ledge, careful to leave enough room for Erik. Turning back to assist his friend, his hand instead knocked against a closed glass pane.

Shouts from inside the room met his ears… "_Zorla almak onu!_...Grab him!"

Nadir tried to slip his fingers under the window frame, but it was impossible to open from the outside. The only way they could reenter the room was to break the glass, and then all three of them would be captured, arrested…he could not think of what would be done to Papi were that to happen.

It was too late.

Nadir listened in vain to the scuffling and curses just beyond the glass. Peering through the window hopelessly, he watched the barely discernable figures through the thin cotton curtains. Turkish soldiers swarmed over the man in white—ten, perhaps twelve of them. He could see Erik swinging away with his knife, his movements still precise as one, then two men fell to the ground, their throats slit.

And then Erik was wrenched backwards, his arms held tightly by the guards. A man strode into the room, his features obscured by the gauzy material. Even through the haze, however, Nadir could distinguish his snakelike movements…sleek and evil.

"Well, what have we here?" the man hissed, his perfect French twisting from his mouth. He ran a long, thin finger along the captured man's mask, his touch playing at the edge of the white leather.

Erik struggled in fury; the soldiers' hands clamped down upon him until he was completely immobile.

The wicked man threw his head back and laughed; the cold, hateful sound sent chills up Nadir's spine, and at last he knew who the laugh belonged to.

"My friend, you remember me, I am sure. And as much as I would like to stay and reminisce with you over our brief time together in London, I have other things to attend to. You see, your little songbird has flown away and we must catch her." Mas Quennell sneered. "Do not be afraid for the Comtesse, Monsieur. We shall find her soon enough, now that you are out of the way."

And with another peel of horrid laughter, he turned on his heels and strode from the room, motioning to the guard captain to continue.

The guard cleared his throat and stared at Erik. "I am instructed to place you under arrest for crimes committed against the sovereign Empire of the Ottomans, in service to the shah of Persia, occurring in the years of eighteen sixty-one to eighteen sixty-three. You are charged with the vicious murders of the Vizier Muhammad Ulzner, Vizier Hikmit Kundakçı, Hâkim Sinan Aktas, and Father Cyril of the Franciscan order in Jerusalem. You shall be held in custody for an indefinite length of time until you stand trial for your crimes…"

Nadir eased away from the window and let his head slump against his chest, the weight of Erik's sacrifice unbearably heavy. His friend would be taken to a Turkish prison, and only Allah could protect him there. His fate was now out of his hands.

OOOOO

Christine dashed through the black tunnel, her skirts whipping around her bruised ankles and satchel painfully thumping her tailbone. Trying to force the stinging pain from her mind, she focused instead on the bobbing head of her toddler in front of her, his tiny arms wrapped around Norry's neck.

"_Maman_?" Jean-Paul whimpered.

"Do not be afraid, little man," she reassured the boy, her voice breathless and fatigued. "I should not say 'little man,' should I? For you are a big boy—so brave—no tears at all!" Christine smiled at the child, her eyes promising him things that she could not guarantee.

They ran for what seemed like hours, though the woman knew it could not have been more than twenty minutes. _The old Roman cardo should empty into the Kidron Valley at any moment,_ Ze'ev had explained. The tunnel ended at a hidden exit in the ruins of King David's city, just south of the city wall.

"No one will think to look there," the Russian encouraged them as they fled through the underground.

Sure enough, as they rounded another bend in the path, the blackness began to fade away and light gradually filtered in, signaling the exit into the valley. Christine breathed a prayer of thanks and hoisted the satchel onto her shoulder with a burst of fresh energy. From there they could make their way to the crossroads, where one of Borochov's Jewish colleagues waited with a merchant's wagon to carry them to Acre. Then Erik would find them at the port in several days' time, and they could sail away to freedom…to Prague…

Christine fell into Norry's back, unaware that the party had halted. Puzzled by the sudden stop, she glanced down the path and froze as the reason came into view.

She had seen this man before, many times—the stout little Arab with the roving eyes. He was the Lion's Gate guard. Every time she had passed through the wall on her way to the Mt. of Olives with Erik, he had been there…watching her with beady eyes, undressing her in his mind. He had made her uncomfortable then…

And now he stood in the way, barricading their path to freedom.

Barricading their path, with a pistol pressed to little Benyamin Borochov's head.

"Rivka," Ze'ev murmured, his Russian words low and careful as he clutched his son. His wide-eyed wife slowly backed away from the gatekeeper, clutching her other child tightly to her breast.

"_Sadik_," Christine whispered as she slid along the wall past Norry and Henri, inching closer to the man. "Sir, I have money. A great deal of it, and I can pay—"

The gatekeeper sneered and swung the pistol round to Christine, his trembling hand betraying his nerves. "_La atakalum_," he sneered, shaking his head. With his pistol, he pointed to her satchel then raised the muzzle to her head again.

"How—much?" he asked in broken French, and gestured for her to open the bag.

Christine swung the satchel from her arm and pulled back the flap for the man to glance inside. His eyes grew bright with greed as he saw the piles of bank notes and liras—a small fortune, his for the taking.

Over the gatekeeper's shoulder, she could see Ze'ev slowly handing Benyamin to Rivka, his eyes never leaving the squat man's back. Her fingertips just grazed the lasso coiled under her shawl…if she could just distract the man…

The gatekeeper looked up, catching her eyes as they darted to Ze'ev. With a cry of fury, he swung around and pointed the pistol at the Russian's chest, his hand now shaking in rage. The ominous click of a pistol being cocked resonated through the air. A Hebrew prayer flew from the trapped man's lips, his eyes looking towards heaven.

Erik's voice echoed in her head. _…the worst thing you could do is hesitate because you are afraid. Do you understand? To think first would mean death…_

Banishing her fear, Christine's hand wrapped around the punjab lasso coiled at her waist before she could falter. Grasping the noose in her fist, she pulled the rope away from her sash and whipped it into the air towards her target.

The gatekeeper's hands flew up over his head. The sound of the pistol firing rang in the air and Christine screamed, yanking the rope taut with all of her might. Her eyes squeezed shut and she pulled back even harder, digging her heels into the ground as her prey fell with her, horrible gagging sounds coming from his throat. She screamed again, and this time she did not stop screaming as the rough, leathery rope burned her palms.

She pulled and pulled, pouring every ounce of blind, red hatred into the single act, her muscles quivering with fatigue. Hatred towards the gatekeeper…hatred towards Mas Quennell and his brotherhood… the Marquis de Bourges for his cruelty… Philippe de Chagny for his insufferable duty… hatred for the nightmares and the ghosts that tore her to pieces at night…

_Tear to pieces…tear to pieces…_

"Christine! Christine!" Two hands grasped her shoulders and shook her, halting the screams in her throat. She opened her eyes and glanced about wildly, her gaze coming to rest upon the corpse at her feet.

He was dead, to be sure. Well past dead. The gatekeeper bore the marks of one who had been brutally strangled to death…neck black and bruised, face and eyes red with blood…neck muscles strained and bulging…

Another cry rose up in her throat, but this time it caught there, the bile swimming up and making her sick…dizzy. She dropped the end of the rope in horror and stumbled away from the dead thing, her entire body shaking with exertion. Leaning over a rock, she heaved and heaved, retching violently until there was nothing left. With a feeble cry, she pressed her face to the cold stone and wept, her mind filled with blackness and despair.

"My…my son," she choked, her eyes never leaving the rock. "Jean-Paul—did he see? Oh God, did he see?"

"No. M. Nitot took him away when the gun fired." Ze'ev gingerly removed the lasso from the dead man's throat and re-coiled it, then tucked it under his cloak. He knelt next to the woman and rested a hand upon her back, waiting for her tears to subside.

When her sobs had at last slowed to shuddery gasps of air, the Russian helped her to her feet, placed her satchel over her shoulder, and started down the path.

"We must keep moving," he commanded, looking directly at Christine, "or they will soon be upon us." He slowed his gait and waited for the stunned woman to reach his side so he could speak with her privately.

"You have saved my life, and for that I am grateful," he murmured. "In return, I give you this guidance: Put this from your mind until we reach Acre. Do not think upon it, do not conjure the images. Block it away, banish it from your soul, never to return. This is my advice to you, from one killer to another," he said candidly, leaving no room for discussion.

Christine watched his back as he strode down the path ahead of her, her eyes glazing over.

"_Block away the darkness…banish it from your mind…from your soul, never to return…"_ she whispered, repeating the words like a mantra.

Above the chant, however, Borochov's last words echoed in her head. _From one killer to another… _

_Yes,_ she thought grimly_…yes…I truly am a killer, now._

She wondered if Erik would be proud of her.

* * *

Turkish translations:

_Mas Quennell nerede: _Where is Mas Quennell?

_Sahsiyet bulmak oteki Francizca pitch: _Someone find that French bastard!

_Onlar ar alt gecit, sonraki e gol…: _They are underground, next to the lake.

_Itouulu itt: _son of a bitch!

_Francizca kashar nerede? E Iranli ile onun: _Where is the French slut? The Persian is with her.

_Bakmak dolayi onlari ust katlar: _Look for them upstairs

_Karsilastirmak e daire:_ Check all of the rooms

_Zorla almak onu_: Grab him

**A/N:** I'm going to try a little experiment with y'all, if you don't mind. All the time, I read about how phans find it hard to locate really good stories. I know ffn'ers have their favorites lists and such, but for me, I would like to know _why_ a story is considered a favorite. Therefore, I'm going to use this little author's note at the end of my chapters to promote well-written phics (both well-known and obscure) I have run across, that I think my readers might also enjoy. We'll try it for a bit and see how it goes. Hopefully, this will help boost other stories' readerships.

Recommendation: _The Innocent,_ by The Grasshopper

I had seen this story before, but had never read it until last week, when several phans muscled me into it. I couldn't tear myself away. It is a very believable, modern retelling set in New York City, with wonderfully dark overtones. Erik's characterization is incredible—mysterious, manipulative, sexy and demented. Christine is very Lerouxish, down to her pretty blonde hair. You will recognize other POTO characters, with delicious updated twists. The best part about it? You don't have to wait for updates, because it is complete. Enjoy!


	31. Moments of Peace

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)_

**

* * *

Moments of Peace **

Papi pressed her back to the rough wall, her eyes squeezed shut, fingers clinging to the cracks between the stones as she believed she would tumble to her death were she to let go. It was difficult to say how long she had stood there on the ledge of the orphanage, muscles rigid and unmoving. For a good while after the masked man's arrest, Turkish voices had sounded through the hallways, still in pursuit of the missing Persian and French woman. Gradually, however, the voiced faded into nothing as the guards moved from the building, and into other parts of the city.

And still they waited, holding their breath and praying the men were truly gone—for a good ten minutes at least—until they emerged from their perch on the ledge.

"Mlle. Nitot, may I have your headscarf?" Nadir whispered.

Papi nodded and unwound the long striped cloth from her head and neck, handing it to the man. He wrapped it around his hand and with a quick, solid punch, broke through a pane of glass and unlatched the window. Muttering an oath under his breath, the daroga slid the window open and pulled himself through, then reached out to help the woman.

"Mind the glass," he said, nodding to the floor.

Papi carefully stepped around the shards and glanced about the room, wary of any soldiers that might still be lingering in corners. They made their way through the hallways as quietly as possible—silence had descended upon the orphanage, and the slightest footfall could be heard. Laughter and squeals that normally echoed through the building were missing; Papi hoped with all of her might that this meant the children were safely tucked away.

As they crept through the courtyard, Nadir took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "They are gone," he whispered, his sad jade eyes catching hers. He smiled a weak smile, though his hunched shoulders and sagging features told her he was not necessarily pleased by it. For while the soldiers' retreat meant they were no longer in immediate danger, it also meant that Erik was now out of their reach.

Shaking out the borrowed headscarf, the Persian handed it back and told her to put it on—they were taking to the streets.

While the Via Dolorosa was always a bustling thoroughfare of the old city, as it happened to be the very path the Christ had taken to enter Jerusalem, _and_ it was Palm Sunday—today the street was more than likely the busiest street in the entire world.

And it worked overwhelmingly to their advantage.

Though Turkish soldiers hovered in balconies, scanning the swarms of people and palm fronds, Papi and Nadir moved unnoticed through the crowds, making their way to the safest place they could think of—the Church of the Flagellation. She fervently prayed that the sanctuary was untouched.

As they neared the Franciscan courtyard, however, raised voices coming from the very sanctuary told her that her prayer was in vain. The persons were French…and one of the voices she recognized all too well. Her face contorting in fear, she turned to Nadir to warn him that they had fled straight into Mas Quennell's arms.

The Persian, however, was one step ahead of her. Grabbing her elbow, he pulled her into the narrow gap between the church and the monastery, under the cover of shadow. Silently, they listened to the cool voices floating through the open doors of the church.

"…for one who has just learned that the murderer of your predecessor has been apprehended, Father, you seem startlingly forlorn."

"…no, no…what you see is weariness, Monsieur. It has been a rather long several days, with the Holy Week upon us…"

"I was told by several that you had developed something of a friendship with the Comtesse de Chagny and her household. You are not saddened by their flight? Surely you must desire to protect them…keep their confidences?"

"…neither the Comtesse nor her household confided in me; nothing of their plight is known..."

"Do you know what I believe?" The voice changed tactics, becoming cruel, snide. "I believe that you know much more than you are letting on. You would not wish to go the way of Father Cyril, I imagine…"

Papi started at the threat, stepping out as if she meant to intervene in some way. The Persian's hand closed tightly over her shoulder and he pulled her back, breathing a quiet "shhhh" into her ear.

Silence…and at length, a quiet, sure voice. "I am not afraid to die. 'For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ.'"

The words hung in the air, daring Mas Quennell to act upon his threat. And then there was an angry growl…the sound of a struggle…the clattering of metal upon the floor…

Papi's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the cry that rose up. A shout in the sanctuary, this time belonging to Michel David.

"Quennell, deign to control yourself, for Christ's sake! Do you want the wrath of the Sepulchre tumbling upon your head as it did the masked man's? If you kill the priest, the Christian Quarter will scream until the Turks chain you next to him!"

Another tense silence descended; the maid held her breath, waiting for the serpent to strike. Instead, the men turned on their heels and strode out of the old chapel, their boots pounding upon the stones in their anger.

"Remember, priest," Quennell called over his shoulder, his voice tinged with hatred. "One false move, and we will be there, ready to send you to your God!"

Mas and Michel stormed through the courtyard, the former savagely lashing the drapes of ivy as he passed. And then they faded away, allowing peace to once more settle upon the monastery.

Ever so cautiously, Papi inched her way through the gap towards the light, clinging to the daroga's robes, all propriety cast aside. _We shall make it, yet!_, she thought with relief_. Just a few more steps, and sanctuary shall be ours…_With a hurried glance into the courtyard, the hunted pair stumbled into the tiny church and closed the door behind them.

The German priest leapt up from the altar at the front of the chapel, his old knees nearly giving way beneath him.

"Father!" the woman cried, and rushed to the old man's side.

Nadir swiftly grasped Father Jakob's arm and helped him into the pew.

Nodding his thanks to the daroga, the priest took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his beaded forehead.

The man's face was white. It was not fear that was etched in the wizened lines, though; rather, the steadfastness with which he held to his faith while death hovered above had left him drained, weary.

Papi slid into the pew next to him, her dark eyes filled with concern. "Father, are you hurt?"

"No, my daughter. You need not worry about this old man." He patted her hand and smiled sadly. "I am simply relieved to see that they have not found you or Madame Reinard. That man—Quennell, his name was—it was as if he had no soul. I know it is wrong for one of the clergy to say so, but I truly believe he hasn't. His eyes…they were cold, blank. No anger, no frustration. Just…nothing." Father Jakob shuddered.

"Madame Reinard and the others—are they here?" the Persian asked, his eyes full of worry.

The priest shook his head. "No. I pray that wherever they are, they have left this city far behind them." He paused in thought, his eyes shifting from Papi to Nadir. "Which you must do, as soon as possible. Not now, of course. The Turks are watching every gate of the old city, as well as the underground roads. There will be no escape for you tonight."

"We cannot go back to the Ecce Homo, Father," Papi murmured.

"No, no, it is being guarded, as well. You must take refuge in the monastery, I insist upon it." The old man held up his hand, silencing the woman's protest. "Our protection is always there for those who would claim its sanctuary. Should the authorities find you in our midst, they cannot pass through our doors without breaking their understanding with the Sepulchre, I assure you. You must simply wait until the Turks draw away their guard."

Papi knew that what the priest said was true. Though she hated to bring danger upon the small Franciscan order, there was nothing to be done but to claim sanctuary with the friars. So she and the Persian were both given the rooms within the monastery, prisoners until the opportunity came for them to slip away from old Jerusalem.

Life within the monastery, though confining, was not stodgy and grave as the woman had thought it would be. Like Father Jakob, the Brothers of Penance were of a genial nature, and Papi found them to be pleasant company. The order made certain their guests wanted for nothing. Under cover of transferring laundry from the Notre Dame de Sion, the holy fathers were able to return many of the possessions left behind in the Chagny household's rooms after their flight. The maid carefully sorted through the things: clothing, books, toys, mementos, and (she trembled as she held them) several masks, deciding what should be kept and what would go to the church. Father Jakob even spoke with Sister Helena about returning to M. Khan a substantial portion of the money paid to the pilgrimage house, since the Turks had confiscated whatever money had been left in the rooms. The pair would need some sort of financial assistance once they fled Jerusalem, if they were to survive.

Yes, the brothers and sisters were generous, indeed. If it were not for the circumstances that had led them to seek refuge within the monastery, Papi would have been happy enough. So many questions weighed heavily upon her mind, however, that she was not quite able to enjoy her peaceful surroundings.

It was in just such a peaceful surrounding—the enclosed garden with the lovely fountain—that the maid sorted through her confusion. Spreading her shawl, she settled herself upon the ground and leaned against the wrought iron bars surrounding a flowerbed filled with Rose of Sharon. The gentle splash of the water lulled her jittery senses, and she closed her eyes in reflection.

The chance that the Turks might discover them was always foremost in her mind, of course. So far, they had been extremely fortunate in their escape. Papi knew full well that they might be dead now, had her mistress' Erik not returned for them.

His sacrifice baffled her, through and through. His actions that day confounded everything she had believed about this person. She simply could not understand why a man who gave the appearance of being driven entirely by selfish motives would allow himself to be captured, in order to save two people he could not have cared less about. After all, he had the woman he loved. He had his freedom. Why would he sacrifice it? How could his character change so drastically?

Papi knew the answer, and she hung her head in shame. The truth was that her perception had simply been wrong to begin with. This man was, without a doubt, a killer. From what she knew of his affairs in Paris and in London, he was also manipulative, threatening, exacting, and entirely criminal. However, there was more to this masked man than his crimes. Just as he had a great capacity for hate, he had just as great a capacity for love. Christine de Chagny had seen it; so had Nadir Khan. Even her father had sensed it. And yet she had been so filled with her own thoughts of jealousy, hatred, and bitter sorrow, she couldn't see the same pain reflected in another soul.

The woman buried her face in her hands and wept. Nadir had come to her this morning, steeped in sadness after quietly moving about the city amongst the Palestinians, unearthing what information he could. He had tirelessly searched for his friend's whereabouts, only to discover that Erik had been held in the Citadel less than two hours before being transported out of Jerusalem. From there, no one could tell him where the prisoner had been taken. Hundreds of Ottoman prisons stretched from there to Ankara, and the man could be on the road to any one of them.

Nadir had informed her that once the Turkish guard began to dissipate from the city gates, he would see her safely to Europe before returning to Palestine to hunt for his friend. The _Sûreté,_ he told her, would take care of her until she found her father.

The Persian's plan was logical. She could not stay in Jerusalem, now; her presence would only bring trouble to the orphanage and convent. And if she went with him to find Erik, she would only be a hindrance to the man. It could be weeks, months before Nadir discovered which prison his friend had been taken to, and the last thing that he wanted was to be responsible for another human being.

Why, then, did her heart ache at the thought of being left in Europe?

The woman plucked one of the fragrant pink blossoms and absently brushed it along her cheek. How many times had she lingered in her Papa's gardens, picking flowers and listening to fountains?

The old Chagny estate had a reputation for beautiful gardens—her father had always been proud of them. Trimmed trees and topiaries…stone paths weaving through elaborate _parterres_...water lilies drifting in the ponds…thousands upon thousands of flowers. Peonies and violets in the spring; sunflowers, nasturtium, and roses in autumn. She could smell them, see them now, spilling over the _alleés_— a riot of color!

Beyond the gardens rose the Chagny home, rows of windows gleaming in the morning light, its white stones and chimneys a testimony to the legacy of those who had lived there. Trees, fountains, home…all woven together to create a perfect life.

_And amidst all of the finery and color, there is a man…handsome and kind, with the bluest of eyes and a warm smile…_

A wave of homesickness washed over Papi. How she longed for her dear home, so far away in France. She yearned for the days that had been, now gone; and she yearned for the days that had never been at all. Sometimes when she slept, she was in her little cottage again, seated at the plain wooden table and sharing a bowl of red apples with the young Vicomte. And Perri…always her little child, darting around the table legs, tugging at Raoul's sleeve, gazing up at him with adoring eyes. Or she was welcoming the new Comtesse, feeling a pang of pity for the wide-eyed, trembling girl before her. Oh, she had been jealous of Raoul's new bride—she could admit it now. Yet her heart had gone out to the lonely creature, so out-of-place, unaccepted by all of the aristocracy save for M. David. She had befriended the woman in spite of herself. The friendship, though, had somehow fallen by the wayside.

_No,_ the woman silently corrected, _not 'somehow.' It fell apart because neither of us took the first step towards mending it…_

Papi stared at the pitiful blossom in the palm of her hand, now crushed by her restless fingers. Sighing, she tossed the petals into the flowerbed. There would be no more such days at Chagny—not for her. They belonged to the past, with the rest of her memories. Her friendship with Madame Reinard, however…perhaps it was not too late to salvage it.

With a heart of conviction, she pulled herself up from the ground, smoothed her skirts and gathered her shawl, and made her way through the monastery.

She would not be returning to Europe—she knew that, now. There was a man who had given everything to save her life—she could not turn her back on him. Somehow, she would convince Nadir to take her with him. There _had_ to be a way she could help, if only to be a companion to the daroga when the days grew long.

And, perhaps, she could find her way back into her dear friend's heart, as well.

OOOOO

Christine tugged at the belt about her waist as discreetly as possible, desperately trying to keep her oversized _libas_ from from falling down. They were the smallest size they had been able find in the tiny coastal town of Acre. Thus far, the strip of cloth holding them up had done its duty, and she had been saved the embarrassment of losing her clothing in public. As she and Henri trod street after street, however, the knot had begun to work loose and therefore, so had her _libas._

"Really Christine, you must stop fidgeting so," M. David simpered. "Everyone will know that you are a woman despite the _keffiyeh,_ with the way you fuss about your clothing."

The woman sniffed indignantly and tightened the belt, doing her best to ignore the _avocat_'s chortling at his jest. Glancing up and down the oceanfront street, she looked for any sign of Erik, Nadir, or Papi. They were not there. Her face fell in disappointment; she had scoured the entire port city the past two days in search of their missing party, and had come up empty-handed.

Ze'ev had told her that they could wait no longer in Acre, and would leave Palestine first thing in the morning. Erik and the others would simply have to meet them in Prague, as planned. He had assured her that her husband would move mountains to find her. Christine tried not to remember the flicker of concern that had passed across his eyes. She knew what he had been thinking. Three days was plenty of time for a person to travel from Jerusalem to Acre—they had hidden in a slow-moving, steamy merchant's wagon the entire trip, and had still arrived at the northern city in little more than a day. The only reason Erik would not have arrived was if his travel had been interrupted, somehow…

Christine shook away the thought. She did not want to begin imagining the numerous manners in which Erik could have been waylaid.

"It is getting late, Madame," said the low voice at her side, breaking into her thoughts. "I think that we should give up the search and return before darkness falls."

Christine followed M. David up the slope, towards the small stone inn. The salty Mediterranean air whipped about her face as they climbed higher along the coastal wall, sending a shiver of familiarity up her spine. She had felt such a breeze before…

"Henri, I do not think I will go in, just yet," she said, gesturing to the sea wall that ran beside the inn. "I would like a bit of time to myself, if you don't mind."

The man nodded. "I would not stay out past dark. Port cities are not the safest of places, even for women who are dressed as men." M. David gave her a teasing wink. She turned away from him and settled onto the wall, her feet dangling over the edge.

"I can take care of myself, Henri. You need not concern yourself with my welfare—it isn't your place to do so."

The _avocat_ blinked in surprised hurt. "I do not doubt that you can take care of yourself—I was there with you in Jerusalem, at the end of the tunnel. However, is it wrong to be concerned for a friend, Christine?"

"No," she replied, feeling a pang of guilt at her sharp words. She spoke more gently. "Forgive me—I am rather uneasy today. Thank you for your concern, Henri. I will be in before the sun sets, I promise you." Offering him a half-hearted smile, she turned back to the ocean, vaguely aware of the inn door opening and closing as the man retreated. At last, she had bit of peace to sort through her troubled thoughts.

The sea air cooled her flushed cheeks, its freshness a welcome respite to the stale, stifling confines of the merchant's wagon. The trip had been horrendous; it was difficult enough to crouch next to seven other people for such a long length of time, but when three of them were squirming, hungry babies…

At one point, the wagon had been stopped by a regiment of Turkish soldiers on the road from Jerusalem to Acre. They had asked the Jewish merchant if he had observed a small party of Europeans traveling north. Christine had thought they most certainly would be discovered, and prayed that none of the children would choose to make their presence known. The merchant wisely replied that he had seen no one, except for a caravan of Bedouins moving south towards Mediggo. Thankfully, the Turks chose to ride on instead of searching the wagon.

The trip had not allowed her any time to ruminate over what had happened during their escape from Jerusalem. In her stunned state, it had been easy to push the murder from her mind—just as Ze'ev had told her to do. But now…

Christine saw the man's bloated, ugly face before her again…eyes bulging, lips blue. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing away the gruesome vision seared in her mind. Yet it grew stronger, gained life with every second she thought upon it. The smell of blood, feel of the rope under her palms…she gazed at her hands and saw the thick lines burned into them where she had gripped the Punjab lasso, wrenching life from another human being.

Tears slid down her cheeks. Did the gatekeeper have a wife who had waited for him to return home that night? Children who had cried when the body was brought home to them, a lifeless corpse in place of a father? Nausea again swept over her at the thought, and she wrapped an arm about her midsection, hunching over until the sensation passed. She did not want to know—not ever. To her, he was simply the Lion's Gate keeper—a greedy, sneering little man who she had murdered to save her child. This was all he could be to her—no name, no family—if she knew more, she would go mad.

_If only Erik was here!_ she wished, the terror of her first kill seeping into her veins. Never had she longed for his guidance as much as she did now. He would know how to make the blackness in her mind go away; help her to find peace in the darkness. What was it he had told her, so long ago?

_"Find beauty in the darkness, Christine. The light can be harsh, cold. But darkness…the dark is much sweeter."_

She had looked at him in confusion_. "If there is no light, Angel, we cannot know what is real and what is not. Do you not desire truth?"_

Her teacher had gazed at her, his golden eyes strange and unfathomable. _"In darkness, truth is whatever you choose for it to be, child. Rest in its oblivion as long as you can; reality will come soon enough..."_

_Yes,_ she mused, _rest in the darkness. Embrace its sweet oblivion. Forget that you have killed, and you forever have blood on your hands._ She stared at her palm, at the tell-tale brand of the lasso…at her wedding band. Was she now a creature of darkness, just like her husband? Her heart ached at the thought of her poor, unhappy Erik.

_What a little fool I was, those years ago,_ she reflected. _I could not see that my teacher was simply a man who used the darkness to hide from himself. A man so rejected by others, that the only way he could live a normal life was to pretend._

Christine twisted the small gold band around her finger. How many times had he turned to the dark to forget the bodies that had fallen at his feet, their blank eyes open, as if staring into his soul? How could one forget such a thing, except to pretend it hadn't happened at all?

She shook her head, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. If this dreadful feeling…this despair was the same punishment he had carried with him for so many years, then she could at last understand his madness. She could understand his need for escape. She could understand his fanatical yearning for a normal life…for beauty…for someone to share it with.

Christine's eyes fell shut as she listened to the gentle roar of the waves crashing upon the sand below her. Yes, it was familiar now, with her eyes closed. The sound of the water…the feel of the sea breeze upon her face…tang of the salt upon the air…

It had not been a dream; whatever it was that night, it was not a dream. The night she had lain strangled upon the floor of her bedroom, her life ebbing from her body…she had spoken with Raoul, she was sure of it! A soft sigh escaped her lips as she thought about the bit of paper tucked away in Erik's satchel, hidden among the bank notes and sheets of music. She had read it once more, just to be certain of its contents:

_Little Lotte,_

_Death is but an illusion. When this ordeal is over, come find me. Forgive me for the madness… _

_No._ She shook her head with conviction, refusing to believe what Erik obviously did. _I saw him, there on the Brittany shore. I spoke with him, and he gave me a choice. I chose Erik. I chose life. _

She stared across the harbor and into the ocean, watching the boats coming in for the evening. She remembered the boat…the little boat of death that traveled neither here nor there.

_The child with the grown-up eyes, on the Brittany shore—he was real. He was Raoul through and through, down to the very depths of him. The Raoul in my nightmares—the corpse in the coffin, whispering those very words: 'Death is but an illusion'—he was not real. Merely a frightful specter—_

Christine's eyes flew open as clarity rung through her. Why on earth had she not recognized those words before? Raoul's words, etched in his own hand upon the note…murmured from a grave in her nightmares…

…and spoken to her on a stormy, grey beach.

"_Death is not real, you know—it is merely an illusion, a transition. There is nothing to fear in it, for one never truly dies…"_

Raoul was dead. He was. She had truly spoken with him the night she was dying. There was no other explanation for the words.

_Was there?_ Christine sighed, uncertainty weighing upon her heart. She could never know for certain—not until she reached Prague. Then Erik would be there, and he would tell her she had done the right thing by killing the gatekeeper. _Strike first, before you are struck…_There had been no other choice. No option, but to take the man's life. Yes, she knew it was true—and as long as she kept believing it to be true, she would be fine. She would be absolved.

Christine glanced down at the mark of death upon her palm, and found that she could barely see it; the sky had grown dark. She had promised Henri David that she would come inside before darkness fell. Her lips twisted into an ironic smile. "I believe it is too late for that," she whispered. Erik would appreciate the humor of it.

OOOOO

Erik loosed a short, bitter laugh as he took in his surroundings. _What a twist of events,_ he mused. _After all these years and everything that I have done—here I am, once more— _

_Locked in a cage._

The morning was already hot. The sun beat down mercilessly upon the small caravan of wagons as they wound its way into the city. The air inside was putrid; a man would rather cease to breathe than inhale such filth. There was no breeze to speak of, save for an occasional gust that made its way through the single barred window, bringing with it a hint of the outside world.

_Sea air, _Erik thought as he pushed himself up against the wall towards the window, inhaling the bit of freshness. _We_ _are in Acre. And Christine…she could be here, somewhere._ He tried to stretch his torso a bit further, to peer out the little square. If only they had not chained his feet so close to the wall, he might be able to turn better. He cursed himself for his rashness.

Last night had not been the best of nights. The past two days, his mind had churned, searching for a way to escape his fate. He should have been thinking more clearly—should have planned his escape with more care than he had. The opportunity, however, had presented itself in the form of a stopped caravan, an open wagon door, and one guard relieving himself as the other kept watch over the prisoners. Or rather, leaning against the doorframe, puffing on a pipe filled with foul-smelling, cheap tobacco.

Erik had sneered at the man. Did they not know who they held in their prison? Was this man so foolish as to turn his back, even for the briefest of moments, upon the most deadly assassin in all of Persia? Before he gave the situation any more thought, he whipped his heavy chain around the Turk's neck and yanked it back, instantly snapping his neck. The body fell to the floor with a thud—and the jangle of keys. Erik turned the guard over and pulled the keys from his belt, putting the first to the lock at his wrist. It did not open.

Cries had begun to sound outside; the second guard was calling for assistance from the other wagons. The other prisoners around him started to shout, either in encouragement or in a panicked plea for assistance.

He tried another key, and a third. "_Merde!_" he breathed, fiddling with the keys. Of all the things! Every detail had been perfectly planned, except for one thing: he hadn't paid attention to the guards, and had failed to discover which key unlocked his shackles. The fourth key—the lock sprang open and the chains fell away. With a cry of relief, he launched himself through the door and into the night air. Sprinting around the side of the wagon, Erik ran headlong into two guards, their weapons raised. Ducking down, he effortlessly avoided the onslaught as the men tumbled over his back and to the ground. He reached down and snatched up one of the guards pistols then whirled around, ready to escape to freedom.

Four more guards rounded the corner. Erik spun around and ran the other way, only to find another three rapidly closing in, trapping him. He fired the pistol randomly about him, felling another guard before five barrels pointed directly at his chest, ending his dash to freedom.

"If you move, we will fire!" cried one of the Turks, his eyes daring the prisoner to do just that.

For a moment, Erik had been tempted to sneer at the man and wildly lash out like a cornered beast. And then he heard Christine's voice in his head…saw her weeping over what he had done. His wife…his beautiful wife. Damn it, he could never cause her such pain. Without moving a muscle, he had dropped the pistol.

When he awoke, he had found his legs chained to the wall. And his mask…they had taken his mask. He had stared angrily about him, watching as the other prisoners shrank from him in fear. He called to the guard; the guard would not look at him…

_So this is the way it shall be._ _Christine would be happy,_ the prisoner mused bitterly. _I have at last been stripped of my mask._

Erik twisted his torso, at last reaching the window. They were indeed moving along the seacoast. Ships were moving in and out of the harbor, laden with their crops from the sea, bound for such far away places as London and Paris. _Paris…_Erik smirked. If he had never left Paris, he would not have been captured. Only a fool would have gone back to a land in which he was a well-recognized, wanted, murderer. He would not be chained to a wall, heading to an Ottoman prison where the worst of horrors awaited him. Some of the horrors had more than likely been invented by him. If he had never left Paris—

—_If I had never left Paris, Christine would have died in London. And I would then be dead, as well. _

He was a dead man, to be sure. They would most certainly kill him in prison before he ever saw the inside of a court room—there was no question about it. His face would make him a target for cruelty behind bars, just as it always had; people were afraid of things they could not know, could not understand. They would try to break him and turn him into an animal, because they would not see him as human. He'd resist, of course, but it would only anger them further.

So what was left to him, but to turn his mind to greater things? There was his music; he could spend days and days composing it in his head, not forgetting a single note. And when he found himself growing desperate, he would replay it in its entirety, a complete symphony for his enjoyment.

When the nights became especially weary, thoughts of his angel peacefully sleeping beside him would bring him relief. No more would he have to conjure such a vision from his imagination—he already knew the feel of her. He would remember her pressed against him, warm and soft against his corpse of a body, her slow breath against his neck.

Was it worth it? The brief time he had spent as her husband—was it worth his freedom, his life? Erik did not even have to ponder the question. _Yes!_ his mind cried. _Yes, it was worth every hour, every minute. _Knowing that he had her love…he had always sworn that he would die just to hear such words from her mouth. _Well, it now seems that God has chosen to collect, _he smirked. A resentful smile played upon his lips at the remembered prayer.

_If God were truly God, he would allow me to see her just once more,_ he thought with conviction. _Then, at least, I can be content with whatever fate awaits me._

Erik's eyes swept the seaport again, studying the sailors loading and unloading their cargo…the crowds of people that moved along the walkways…hoping…

And then, as if he had conjured the very image himself, his wife was there, standing at the pier. She was dressed as a young Arab man, but it was her, to be sure. Erik recognized every curve of her frame, the soft lilt of her chin, the way she moved as if lost in a dream. She was beautiful in the morning sun, an angel with her little son tucked safely in her arms. He did not see the others—he was sure they were there, but they did not matter at the moment. Only his wife, bathed in light…

Christine suddenly turned and gazed behind her, as if she had felt his eyes upon her. She scanned the bustling road, searching for him, her face alight with surprise. For one brief moment, her eyes fell upon the wagon…the little barred window…and then they passed by, continuing through the crowds of people.

Erik watched her as she gravely turned back to the pier and moved up the slick wooden ramp, boarding a boat that would take her far away from Palestine…far away from him. His angel walked along the deck of the ship and then slipped around the corner, out-of-sight. And he saw his life slip away, as well.

His head fell against his chest, too heavy to hold up. Had he not prayed to see her once again? That if God granted him such a small kindness, he could endure whatever horrors awaited him on the long road to…where were they going?

"_Sadik_," the man croaked, beckoning the guard. "Where are you taking me?"

The guard gazed at the chained prisoner, his eyes gleaming with some dark secret. His lips curled into a sneer.

"To hell," he murmured.

* * *

A/N: I'll post some of my notes from the plot book to my website in the next couple of days, for your further reading pleasure. Speaking of reading, 

Story Recommendation: _A Solo for the Living_, by Tango1

This fiction is based on the movie's story line. It picks up not long after the "disaster", and follows Erik's and Christine's lives (and interactions) after their parting. _A Solo for the Living_ is historically accurate, full of wonderful, researched detail and rich atmosphere, right down to the streets of 1870s Paris. Not only has Tango done an excellent job with her POTO characterizations, her original characters are incredible, as well. The story isn't completed, but the author updates regularly and seems determined to finish. It is beautifully-written, and well worth the read. Enjoy!


	32. M David's Rejection

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)

* * *

_

**In Which M. David is Rejected (Again) and the Ensuing Aftermath of the Entirely Disagreeable Situation**

"Christine? We shall be departing Belgrade very soon. Perhaps you would like a bit of fresh air before the train begins to move?"

Henri David put an ear to the door, listening for any sign of life from within. He tried again. "Breakfast is being served in the dining car."

No reply.

He rapped once more. "My dear, a word of warning: the cabin steward will be along shortly to put away the sleepers."

The sound of someone who was violently ill met his ears.

"If you do not wish to join us for breakfast, I can have something sent to you."

He reached out for the door handle and paused, his fingers hovering over the polished brass. The _avocat_ had never before presumed to enter a lady's bedroom uninvited, and he was not sure he wanted to now. Another retching sound came from the compartment, however, his mind was made up. Opening the door a crack, he hesitantly peered through.

"Christine?" he called again.

The woman was leaning against the wash cabinet, her back to him, cradling what appeared to be a basin. She glanced over her shoulder at the intruder and frowned. "Henri, please just go away! I will be fine in a moment."

The man shook his head and entered the room, crouching down next to her. "You certainly do not look fine."

"_Maman_ is sick," came a small, serious voice. Henri glanced at the boy playing with his plush white horse in the corner of the bottom sleeper, his solemn eyes large and round.

"It is merely the travel, and the distress of our situation," she retorted. The train gave a sudden lurch and she put a hand out to brace herself, inhaling sharply. "Then there is this horrible corset that I must get used to wearing again," she muttered.

M. David chuckled and brushed a curl from her pale face. "Ah, the dictates of fashion have once more claimed us! I cannot say that I am entirely sad to don proper attire, however. Jerusalem was much too wild a place for my taste. Why, to think we lived more than three months without a decent tea or _petit fours_—"

Christine's face whitened even further at the mention of pastries and she moaned, turning back to her basin.

The unladylike noise startled M. David; he had never observed his dear friend in such an unbecoming state before. A sudden pang of pity struck him, and he lightly rested his hand on the ill woman's back. "Is there anything at all I can do for you?"

Christine sighed and gazed at her son. "Jean-Paul has not yet had his breakfast," she said through clenched teeth. "Will you take him with you to the dining car, _s'il vous plait_? I will join you before long, as soon as the sickness passes."

"Oh course." Henri sighed, stretched out his limbs and smoothed his waistcoat, then turned to the boy. "Come Jean-Paul, shall we see what spoils we can find? I imagine they have pastries of some sort." At the mention of pastries, the boy abandoned his play and held out his arms to the _avocat_. He picked up the toddler and turned to the door, his eyes again sweeping over Christine.

"You know, Christine," he said thoughtfully, "if you are still troubled by the man's death in Jerusalem, you needn't be. You did what you had to do—"

"Thank you, Henri. I will keep that in mind," she snapped, and turned her back to him, signaling his dismissal.

M. David sniffed indignantly and slipped from the room, closing the door as quietly as possible. He wandered down the narrow hallway, past the other compartments where well-dressed passengers who had just boarded the _Express d'Orient_ were shuffling about, stowing their valises and settling into their seats.

It was divine to be amongst proper civilization; to have hot and cold water, crisp linens and soft towels, gleaming woodwork, and fine china; to be able to tip one's hat to a lovely lady, or nod to a groomed gentleman.

The first thing he had done when they had reached Constantinople was set about becoming a proper aristocrat. After a visit to a barber and clothing merchant's shop, he was once again handsome and polished. A tailor would have been preferable to the ready-to-wear suits he had been forced to settle upon, but there had been no time. His darkened skin and lighter hair, though by no means fashionable, did seem to lend him an exotic, mysterious air which, he could not help but notice, attracted the attention of several ladies aboard the train.

Christine had been at his side when one such woman had flirtatiously peered up at him from beneath her feathered hat, offering him a warm little smile. He had caught her eye and smiled back, secretly hoping against hope that his dear friend had noticed the interlude. Surely she must see that he was just as desirable as any man, and had felt a stab of jealousy! How could she not? Henri had glanced down at his companion to find her staring intently out the window at the scenery rushing by.

She had not noticed, after all.

He sighed, straightened his waistcoat again, and entered the dining car. The ready-made suit would have to do until they reached Prague.

M. David scanned the diners seated at the tables, looking for his party. Spotting them in the opposite corner of the car, he gave a little wave and claimed the table next to theirs. He settled Jean-Paul into the chair opposite his and tied a napkin around the boy's neck; Christine would be displeased if the child soiled his new clothing.

Jean-Paul stared at his empty plate. "Is Papa here?" he asked.

Henri's eyes snapped to the boy's. "No, he is not," he replied succinctly. "Your father is…" What the _avocat _had meant to say was 'Your father is dead'; however, as he stared down at the child's questioning blue eyes, he found he could not finish the thought. "Your father…he is not here," he finished weakly, and stared down at his own empty plate to avoid the child's innocent gaze.

A look of disappointment crossed Jean-Paul's face and for a moment, Henri was afraid he would cry. The boy soon became engrossed with his silver napkin ring, however, and to M. David's relief, all talk of 'Papa' ended.

"How is Madame Reinard fairing?" Ze'ev Borochov inquired from the neighboring table.

The _avocat_ swiveled around and leaned over the chair. "Still as sick as a dog," he chuckled, shaking his head. "The poor thing could barely stand, she was trembling so. And such a temper these past few days! She practically ordered me to leave her room—would not accept a single bit of help."

"She has not been well since we left Acre," Ze'ev said pensively.

Henri shrugged and glanced at the breakfast list, then at the waiter pouring tea. "Smoked salmon, _oeufs en cocotte_, and an apple tartlet for the boy, _s'il vous plait_," he said, and turned back to Ze'ev. "Forgive the uncouthness, but Christine has never had a strong stomach. Why, she was seasick for nearly half of our journey aboard the _H.M.S. Inflexible_, and that was a large ship. The small rig from Acre to Constantinople was nothing compared to the navy steamer—of course she would be ill."

"She _was_ awfully peaked right until we reached Jerusalem," Norry confirmed, absently toying with the French silver in his fingers. "Couldn't nye walk thirty steps 'fore she was leaning over the railing again."

"Messieurs, we have not been aboard a ship for three days," Borochov countered. He murmured something in Russian to his wife; she stared at him, then nodded and rose from her chair to assist the sick woman. "Rhivka shall see to Madame Reinard before she returns to our children."

Henri could not help but notice the knowing look that passed between husband and wife. His face went pale. "You cannot think—why, it isn't possible—"

"M. David, of course it is possible."

"But—with Jean-Paul, it was nearly two years!"

The man chuckled. "Not every marriage is the same, Monsieur. We cannot speculate based upon previous—"

Old Norry cleared his throat in irritation, suddenly making his presence known. "I can't help but think it's not our place to speculate whether it is _possible _or not. A bunch of old gossips—worse than women." He stabbed a baked apple and popped it into his mouth, then pointed the fork at the two men, his words low and serious. "All I know is that girl has been unhappy since we left Acre. She didn't want to leave her husband behind in Jerusalem. And my Papillon—who knows whether they were able to get out of the city!" He swallowed the apple and shook his head. "We shouldn't have left 'em behind—my girlie, the Persian and that man—we should have waited."

"We had no choice, M. Nitot," the Russian said empathetically. "Benyamin, Sasha, and Jean-Paul—we could not linger any longer in Palestine, risking their lives. Besides, if Madame Reinard is…you know…then it is entirely better that we left. Prague will be much safer than Acre. If the others escaped Jerusalem, then they will find us there, eventually."

"And how will they find us in Prague?" Norry asked. "They cannot visit every inn and hotel in the city. Suppose they were not able to leave Palestine right away, and aren't at the bridge on Sunday—then what?"

Ze'ev sighed. "We shall simply have to hope they show up. If not—we will decide what to do when the time comes."

The old caretaker grumbled something under his breath and stared out the window, surveying the Serbian countryside as it flew by.

Henri studied the crystal glass in his hand, lost in thought. Rolling its base around in the sunbeam that fell across the table, he watched the colored pins of light as they scattered along the wall. The waiter returned with their breakfast and set it in front of him and Jean-Paul, but he took no notice. "Christine could not possibly be…" he repeated sadly, shaking his head.

"Could not be what?"

The lawyer glanced up in surprise to find the very woman they had spoken of pulling out the chair opposite him. She had changed into a lovely blue dress and had pinned up her curls. Though still pale and tired, she appeared to have regained control of her faculties.

Cheeks flushing in embarrassment, he quickly jumped up from the table and walked around to her side, pushing in her chair.

"I could not be what, Henri?" she repeated. Taking up a knife and fork, she cut her child's tartlet into smaller pieces, then slid the plate away. Jean-Paul immediately wrapped tiny fingers around the pastry, shoved it into his mouth, and grinned at his mother. She patted his hand and turned back to her companion, waiting for an answer.

The _avocat_ glanced over his shoulder for help. Ze'ev and Norry stared intently at their plates, suddenly busying themselves with their breakfast. He turned back to his companion and gestured to the dainty china teapot. "Hungry," he replied. "You could not possibly be hungry; may I offer you tea instead?"

Christine nodded and handed the man her cup and saucer, letting the question drop. "When shall we reach Vienna, do you think?"

"Depending on how quickly we traverse Hungary, I would venture tomorrow morning. And from there, on to Prague." He handed her teacup back. "Prague is a magnificent city, Christine. My father sent my brothers and me on many tours of the continent—after the war, of course—and the Bohemian capitol was always a favorite of mine, despite its rather vulgar Austrian authorities. As Goethe said, 'In the crown of the cities, _Praha_ is the most precious stone.' I am inclined to agree with him—Hradčany Castle, St. Vitus Cathedral, Charles Bridge, the river Vltava—such dark beauty cannot be found anywhere else upon the earth. _Oeufs en cocotte?_"

He lifted the lid from the baked eggs and offered them to the woman.

Christine put a hand to her mouth and shook her head, carefully averting her eyes from the dish. "No, thank you," she murmured and busied herself with her tea.

M. David grimly studied the woman before him. Then, as if he had dropped a mask over his face, he gave her a radiant smile, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue leather-bound book.

"For you, my dear," he murmured, sliding the object across the table.

Christine looked at him curiously. As she picked up the book, Henri's fingertips brushed hers and she quickly pulled her hand away, cheeks flushing crimson. She flipped open the cover and skimmed the title page, conscientiously avoiding the lawyer's steady gaze.

"_The True City of Love: Janos' Conversational and Touring Guide to Prague. _Henri, what a…thoughtful gift," she stammered, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.

The man beamed. "I purchased it in Belgrade this morning, during our brief stop. It shall be immensely helpful, I assure you. Once we reach the city, I shall show you every inch of it! You won't be disappointed, I promise you—Prague will be a luxury compared to the horrible conditions we endured in Jerusalem. The sights, the sounds—we must begin atop Hradčany, of course, and work our way down the hill, across the river and into _Staré Mĕsto_, the Old Town—"

"Henri," Christine cut in, "I am sure that Prague is lovely. However, you must not think we are going, simply to tour the city. Once I find my husband, there will be no time to loiter about."

The _avocat_ scowled. "From what you have told us, it is not even certain whether Raoul is alive or dead."

"I spoke of Erik," she said softly, her eyes searching his. "_He_ is my husband now, Henri. You must accept this."

"I will certainly try to _accept _this," M. David retorted, his face crumpling in hurt petulance, "but I highly doubt that Raoul de Chagny will be so keen to _accept_ it. Should you discover him in Prague, he will be devastated to find that he has lost his wife," he added in spite.

Christine abruptly pushed away from the table and rose. "I have heard enough. Jean-Paul, have you finished your breakfast?" The mother untied the cloth from her child's neck as he crammed one last bite of the apple tartlet into his mouth, nodding that he was indeed finished. As she laid the napkin down, M. David's hand quickly closed over hers.

"Just remember, Christine, who has never left your side since London," he whispered fervently, "and who has always done the leaving. Simply food for thought."

Her eyes snapped up warily and she yanked her hand away. "I would hold your tongue, if I were you," she said, her words low and threatening. "You know what happens to men who get in Erik's way." She tilted her chin in defiance. "He will be at Charles Bridge on Sunday, Henri. Therefore, I suggest you keep your hand at the level of your eyes." And with her parting shot, she picked up her boy and turned on her heel, striding from the dining car.

M. David watched Christine's retreating form until she was out of sight, then picked up the discarded touring book and angrily shoved it into his pocket.

The sound of quiet chuckling met the lawyer's ears, and he whirled around to face the two men seated at the neighboring table.

"Well done, lad," said old Norry, still wincing from the disastrous scene. "If I were you, I'd best watch your neck from now on. If _he _doesn't get you, _she_ will."

Crossing his arms in anger, Henri bit his tongue and turned to the window, watching the whir of the green hills. He reached up to the window and cracked it open slightly, then pulled the blue tour book from his coat and tossed it away. With a huff, he jammed the glass shut and fell back into his chair, picked up his fork, and stabbed at the now-cold eggs. Choking down a bite, he shoved his plate away in disgust.

_She couldn't possibly be…_he thought bitterly, and turned back to the window.

OOOOO

The call of the muezzins echoed through Jerusalem's dusky quarters, signaling the end of another long day. Once again, the city gates were closed to the outside world, their lion guardians of stone stoic and unwavering in the moonlit night.

An oil lamp burned low in the shabby parlor of the Franciscan monastery; two people, an old priest and a nun, sat in tense silence waiting, their bags at their feet. A mantel clock struck the time: a quarter past eight. If they were to reach Acre by morning, it would be necessary to depart within the hour.

The holy sister was the first to break the silence. "Father, are you certain that you wish to accompany us?" she asked, a look of concern crossing her face. "You have your ministry here. And suppose we were discovered…"

The priest patted the woman's shoulder. "Never you mind, my daughter. My ministry here will be well cared for in my absence. Moreover, I feel a certain calling to assist you and Daroga Khan in this endeavor to find your friend; and when one is given a calling, one must not turn away."

"It is Constantinople for certain, then?"

"Nothing is for certain, Mlle. Nitot. Constantinople is the most likely place for a political assassin of your friend's caliber to be incarcerated. The Turkish capitol holds the largest, most secure prisons of repute. Or rather, ill repute," he murmured, turning wizened eyes upon the woman. "Even if he has been taken to the city, there are many places in which he could be held—both in Constantinople and the surrounding area. It could be a long time before we discover his whereabouts, you understand." He rose and faced the woman, his voice edged with a plea. "Please, my daughter, will you not reconsider continuing on to the continent from Acre? Go to the _Sûreté_; find Mme. Reinard. You will be much safer there."

Papi smiled softly and shook her head. "My resolve is firm, Father. Like you, I too have a calling."

The priest sighed and touched the woman's head, as if offering a reluctant benediction. "Very well, then. We must all choose the will of God when he calls."

At last, the man they had been waiting upon, also a priest, emerged from the adjoining room, folded his prayer rug and slipped it into his valise. Smoothing a hand over his Franciscan attire, he grimaced and muttered a Persian oath.

"Allah forgive me for this blasphemy," Nadir muttered, and held out a hand to the cloaked nun.

Papi grinned and took his hand. "I am sure that Allah shall forgive you this one offense, M. Khan. If your friend can dress as an officer of Her Majesty's Navy and not be struck dead, you will certainly be forgiven, I am sure."

"The disguise will ensure safer travels," replied Father Jakob. "Holy men and women are usually overlooked on the roads from Jerusalem to Constantinople; usually, they are simply messengers between the Sepulchre and the cathedrals of the north. As are we." The priest slipped into his cloak and picked up his satchel.

Papi smiled and turned to the daroga. 'Well then, shall we journey to Constantinople?"

Nadir gazed at the young woman, torn. "Stubborn woman! I should lock you in this parlor and not allow you to leave. Mademoiselle, are you certain you wish to do this?"

Papi took her friend's hand and squeezed it. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes searching his. "Yes. Allow me this, Nadir. I have to help right the wrongs of the past, for my own peace of mind."

An enigmatic look crossed over the Persian's face, his jade eyes darkening. His fingers tightened over hers. A minute passed and yet he did not relinquish her grip.

Papi grew distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze; heart pounding, she glanced at the floor, pulling her hand from his.

Nadir turned from her and swept his cloak over his shoulders, carefully avoiding her eyes. "Very well," he murmured, "you shall go with us to Constantinople. I pray to Allah that I shall not regret this decision."

o

The cobblestone streets of the ancient city were dark and empty. Yellow light spilling from the second story homes of shopkeepers cast odd shadows against the sandy buildings, the meager glow offering little comfort to the three passers-by.

After a scant two weeks, the Turkish authorities had pulled their extra guards away from the convent, the orphanage, the monastery, and the city gates. Whatever the sudden disappearance of the guards meant, their lacking presence made Nadir and Papi's escape from Jerusalem all too easy.

Only the new Lion's Gate keeper stood guard that quiet night. The young man watched the holy persons approach his watch and he glanced about, unsure of what to do The position had been appointed to him quite recently after the rather gruesome murder of his predecessor, and thus far, he had yet to deal with strange occurrences. Travelers had requested entry to the city after dark on several occasions, and after a thorough inspection, the Turkish soldiers present had admitted them to the city. Surely travelers requesting to leave the city would present no problem.

"_Sadik_," the gatekeeper said uneasily, "what is your business tonight?"

Father Jakob stepped forward, his Arabic fluent and unassuming. "We are three servants of God who are called to serve outside the city. We travel to the northern settlements, without a moment to spare. If you will let us pass…" The priest gestured to the gate.

The guard eyed them warily. "The roads are not safe at night, Father. It would be best for you to wait until morning."

"A man is dying, _Sadik_," Nadir said emphatically, pulling the hood of his cloak down to hide his Persian features. "You would not deny a man his last rite. As the father said, we must go without delay."

The young Arab gatekeeper stared at the two priests and the nun. At last, he nodded, unbarred the heavy iron gate and swung it open, allowing the Franciscans to pass.

Hiding their surprise at the ease of the escape, they moved through the towering passage through Suleiman's wall, leaving Jerusalem behind. As they maneuvered down the steep, gravelly bank toward the Ofel road, an unspoken dread filled the minds of each traveler; though none dared to give voice to the question, each felt its presence.

It had been _too _easy.

Life had seemingly returned to normal, which could only mean one of two things: either the Turks no longer believed the Persian and the French woman to be in the city…

…or they no longer cared.

Either way, it meant that the police knew something they did not. They already had captured Erik; were they tracking the others to Europe, as well? Perhaps they had already found them…

OOOOO

In comparison to the splendid hotels lining the banks of the Vltava, the Brno Pension was a modest affair. With its old-fashioned, heavy mahogany furniture, stout oriental rugs, and faded velvet cushions upon the divans, the place had once been the epitome of style. The old inn on the edge of Josefov, in the heart of the _Staré Mĕsto,_ was a prime location for any visitor wishing to soak up the gothic grandeur of the city. Given its proximity to the Jewish ghetto, however, the proprietors found themselves sadly lacking the wealthy patrons who had once frequented the inn, and now provided rooms to the Jewish bourgeoisie and French bohemians who desired to tour the city at modest expense.

The narrow bed and small bathroom was of no consequence to Madame Reinard, however. Though Henri David had nearly gone into hysterics when he learned they would not be staying in the Hotel Adria or Grand Bohemia, she found the inn to be perfectly suitable to their needs.

Glancing at her appearance in the mirror, Christine carefully pinned a wayward curl into place, lightly powdered her skin, and slid the dark blue bracelet Erik had purchased for her onto her wrist—one of the few mementos she had carried with her from Jerusalem. She twisted it about to admire the opalescent engravings, smiled weakly at her reflection, and swept from the room.

_Today is Sunday_, she thought with joy. _Today is the day that Erik will be waiting for me upon the Charles Bridge, and we shall be together again._

Though they had only been parted two weeks, it seemed as though a lifetime had passed. The worst of it had been the uncertainty: not knowing what had become of Erik, Nadir, and Papi, whether they had safely escaped Palestine or had suffered a mishap along the way.

Today, however, her fears would be put to rest, and she could sleep in the arms of her husband once more.

With an anxious spring to her step, Christine lifted her heavy blue skirts, flew down several flights of stairs and into the large parlor where Henri, Norry, and Jean-Paul awaited.

"_Maman_," the boy cried, holding out his arms for his mother. Christine laughed and scooped up the child, smoothing down his sailor collar.

"Today?" he asked excitedly, quickly catching his mother's enthusiasm.

"Yes, today, my little man! Papa will be home today." She set the squirming toddler down, turned to her companions and gestured to the door.

M. David's lips twisted sourly as he offered his arm to the woman. "You look particularly lovely this morning, my darling girl. No sickness, I presume?" He placed his top hat on his head, careful not to mess the soft wave of his hair.

"No, none at all," she said absently, anxious to make their way to the bridge. The porter swung the heavy door open for her and she strode outside, glancing about for the carriage. "Henri," she asked warily, "where is the brougham? Surely you called for one."

M. David chuckled and patted her hand indulgently. "Such an anxious little thing today! For the past three days, you have taken a brougham to Charles Bridge, without a care for the sights and sounds of Prague. It is such a lovely morning, I thought that you would enjoy walking, taking in the city."

Christine took a deep breath and turned to the porter. "Sir, would you be so kind as to call a brougham?"

The young man stared at her blankly for a moment. Suddenly his face lit in recognition. "Brougham?" he repeated.

"Yes," she nodded. "_Ano_. Brougham_. Dêkuji,_" she smiled sweetly, and turned back to her companions. "If you do not mind, I would prefer to take a brougham. You may walk, Henri, if you truly want to, and we shall meet you at the bridge."

M. David sighed dejectedly. "No, no. We shall simply postpone our walk for another day."

After several minutes, a carriage rattled to a halt in front of the inn. The lawyer held Christine's hand as he assisted her into the cab, and perhaps a bit longer than necessary. Picking up Jean-Paul, he passed the child to his mother and settled into the heavily cushioned seat next to Norry.

Christine leaned forward to peer out the window at her surroundings. The early May morning was a grey one; a hazy fog had settled over the Vltava and spilled into the maze-like streets of _Praha_, nearly obscuring the old town from view. Rows of pastel town houses and shop fronts sped by, their Baroque gables topping doors and roofs like delicate white frosting upon a cake. The woman smiled at the whimsical, fairytale-like quality of the building, and lifted her son to the window so he too could see the sights.

The brougham jolted along the rough stones, carrying them through the roads of the _Staré Mĕsto_ until they came to a great square surrounded by red-roofed buildings. Next to the square rose a church, its gothic spires towering above Prague.

"The Church of the Virgin Mary before Týn," murmured Henri.

Christine ran her palm over the foggy glass and peered up at the old giant, gaping at the rows of black spindles piercing the clouds, loosing the daylight. All about the square, throngs of the holy made their way to the _kirche_, solemn and faceless in the morning murk. The colorless sight sent a chill through her body; it seemed as though she were watching a funeral procession, so quiet was the early morning hour; only the dull bells of the Týn church dared disturb the peace, their peals swallowed by the fog. Turning her eyes away from the ominous scene, she craned her neck to look up the square, towards the old town hall.

"Did you know, Christine, that this pile of bricks they call a tower is more than four hundred years old?" said M. David, his eyes shining. "Around the bend in the side of the hall is the most charming clock—an astrological clock, to be precise. I remember my brother, Michel, and I observed the clock for nearly an hour, watching the mechanisms and waiting for the figures to emerge from the doors. There was a little café to the right, of course, where we sat. Ah! It is there, still. Perhaps tomorrow we might take tea there…"

Christine pursed her lips and gazed through the window, watching as the carriage turned left, then right onto _Karlova_, carrying them closer to the river. She glanced down at her hands and noticed that she had been wringing her gloves in her lap, stretching the soft white material. With trembling fingers, she slid them onto her hands and rested her arm upon the door, ready to leap from the carriage as it clattered to a halt.

The large, age-darkened Powder Tower came into view and beyond it, the _Karlův Most_ – Charles Bridge. The carriage passed under the arch of the tower and slowed in front of the bridge. Before the brougham had even stopped, Christine threw open the door and leapt to the ground, heedless of her heavy skirting. She peered intently through the fog partially shrouding the bridge, searching for the tall form of her angel. She could see no one.

With a disappointed sigh, she turned back to the carriage and held out her arms for her little boy, who was anxious to roam the strange place and seek out even stranger animals.

"Jean-Paul, you must stay next to _Maman,_ do you understand? No running ahead this time."

The child nodded solemnly and grabbed a fist of his mother's skirt, eager to show just how well he could obey. Christine smiled down upon the boy and slowly made her way towards the bridge, careful to not out-stride her son.

"Damn fog," Norry muttered as they walked along the empty bridge. "Can't see a thing for its thickness." He put his hand to his forehead as if the action would magically clear the murk away, impatient to catch sight of his daughter.

The small party sauntered along the empty _Most_, valiantly hiding their disappointment.

"They will be here very soon, I am sure," Christine proclaimed, and settled upon a wrought-iron bench with her son to wait for her husband.

"I certainly hope so," Norry murmured, his eyes betraying tremendous concern.

M. David sat down next to the woman, his arm resting along the back of the bench behind her. "It is entirely possible there was some sort of delay in Palestine, you know: bad weather, trouble with paperwork, perhaps a broken wheel, even. One cannot say…"

"He will be here, Henri," Christine said resolutely.

They waited upon the _Karlův Most_ for the entire morning, gazing up and down the empty bridge, with only the looming black statues for company. Christine found herself drawn to the giant silhouettes lining the edge of the bridge; the sandstone saints possessed a dark, sad beauty, which at once warmed her heart and chilled her senses. She studied the statue before her: the crowned queen of heaven, rising through the clouds on the backs of a dozen cherub-faced angels, tenderly gazing upon a repentant holy man kneeling at her feet. In her arms was her son, the sovereign orb resting in his lap.

Christine stared down at her own little son, now curled peacefully at her side. Jean-Paul had played happily for most of the morning, every now and then darting along the stone wall, chasing birds and trotting his dull white horse about. When he tired of that, he settled into his mother's arms, singing old Breton songs and telling silly stories to pass the time until Papa came to them. Soon enough, he had dropped off to sleep, the morning's excitement wearing on the two-year-old's constitution.

M. David chatted happily at her other side, every now and again asking her opinion. She murmured a vacant "yes" or "no", and he would rattle away, heedless of her reply.

As the noon hour approached and the churches emptied, the Charles Bridge slowly came to life. Town folk and artists alike wandered along the stone expanse, hawking their goods and creating their masterpieces. An organ grinder resplendent in a black bowler hat and bohemian vest set up his painted barrel organ not far from their bench. As the strains of _Le Donna e Mobile_ bellowed from the pipes, Jean-Paul started awake and immediately slid from his mother's lap, curiosity sparked. A small monkey climbed onto the organ grinders shoulder and chattered. The child clapped in delight.

Christine rose from the bench and joined her son, a smile spreading across her face as she observed the monkey's tasseled Persian vest and cap. "Your Papa has a music box in Paris that looks just like this small monkey, _mon petit_," she whispered into the child's ear. "If you ask him nicely, one day he might just fetch it for you."

The boy pointed to the active little animal climbing up and down the barrel organ. "Like this monkey?" he gasped incredulously, his eyes glistening with excitement.

The mother laughed. "No, not like this monkey, Jean-Paul. The one in Paris does not run around and chatter quite as much. But they are very much alike." She kissed the top of his curly head and handed him a coin. "Hold out your hand," she instructed.

The toddler held out the coin for the Persian monkey, then squealed and yanked it back as the animal snatched the silver from his fingers. He turned to his _Maman_ and held out his hand for a second coin.

"I will give you another soon, little man. Let us walk down the bridge first, and see the other artists."

She took the child's hand, clucking her tongue as he scowled in protest. Soon, however, the other sights and sounds of the circus-like bridge lured him in; a violinist and accordionist playing an odd rendition of a Czech folk song; a gypsy woman twirling about with brightly-colored scarves; the Art Nouveau followers with their easels and sketchbooks, painting their intricate patterns and curving lines.

As they paced up and down Charles Bridge, Christine intently scanned the faces in the crowd, searching for the flash of a white mask. Fair and dark, wrinkled and smooth, but her husband was not among them. With a sigh of impatience, she grasped her son's hand and strode back to Mssrs. Nitot and David.

Another hour was spent in the company of the organ grinder, the boy squealing as the monkey took coin after coin. Soon, however, the repetitive song became dreary, even for Jean-Paul, and he quickly grew shrill and hungry.

"I want!" was the war cry, and Christine picked up the squirming, red-faced boy, rocking him back and forth. When it became apparent that the child would not be appeased, she put forth a desperate plea to M. David for assistance.

"Henri, Jean-Paul needs to return to the inn," she said urgently. "Would you be so kind as to call a brougham?"

The _avocat _at once rose to do as he was bid, then halted. A charitable thought stirred in his mind—a rarity for Henri David—and he gently took the boy from Christine's arms.

"Do you wish to remain here with M. Nitot, my girl?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers.

Christine nodded.

"Then I shall take your son back to the inn, feed him, and put the little savage to bed. How does that suit you?"

The woman stammered her thanks, at a loss for words. It wasn't until she watched the rapidly departing back of the lawyer that she realized, he too, had grown hungry and weary of waiting.

The afternoon passed just as the morning had for Christine and Norry: intervals of crossing the old bridge, studying the artists, musicians, and stone saints, discussing this and that. And always searching…waiting…

Before long, the sun began to sink below the Hradčany, casting the entire skyline of mighty Prague into shadow. St. Vitus Cathedral rose high above them, lording over the Hradčany, its black spires and buttresses glowing green in the light of the sprawling palace. The artists and town folk wandered back from whence they came, gradually leaving _Karlův Most _dark and empty. A young lamp lighter made his way along the bridge, carrying his ladder and propping it up against the gas street lamps, one by one, until the road and sandstone saints were bathed in soft light. The sky became a brilliant orange…then a dusky rose...purple…as the night slowly secured power over the Pearl City.

Christine pressed her fingertips to her stinging eyes, her head wearily falling back against the cold iron of the bench_. I will not cry,_ she silently repeated over and over, a prayer upon her lips_. I will not cry…he will come…he will come…_

"Madame," said Norry at her side, his sorrowful eyes shadowed by the street light. "I think it is time for us to leave."

"No!" Christine cried. She suddenly sat up and clutched the old man's sleeve, her eyes pleading with his. "You don't understand, Norry. Erik—he always comes at night, when there are no people about. He prefers it, you see."

"Christine, child—"

"—And he always appears from thin air, when you least expect it." A frantic edge crept into her voice as she fought back tears. "Just when I begin to believe he will not come, he always does. He _always_ comes to me."

Norry shook his head sadly, his own tears threatening to spill over. "Madame, I want them to be here as much as you do. _Merde_, I miss my daughter just as you miss your husband. The truth is, though, they will not come!" He rose from the bench, offering his arm to the upset woman. "It is time. The streets have grown dark, and it is no longer safe."

At last Christine nodded and wearily stood, stretching her limbs after hours of sitting. The pair made their way across the bridge and back to the Powder Tower, scanning the near-deserted streets for a brougham. After stumbling along the rough paving-stones past the closed, dark shops along _Karlova,_ the sound of a lone carriage clattering along the street caught their attention. Norry called to the driver and handed his mistress into the cab, climbed in behind her, and settled into the cushions.

Neither spoke as the brougham carried them back to Josefov. They passed through the quiet town square, the gothic spires of V. Mary before Týn barely visible against the black, starless sky. Both passengers stared though their windows at the specter-like square, each lost in their sad thoughts.

"We should not have left them there," Norry murmured at length, more to himself than to Christine.

"I know," she whispered, tears now running down her cheeks.

Quiet again fell upon the coach as the truth sank into Christine's heart. She had known. Somehow, deep inside of her, she had known. In Acre, she had felt him…felt his desperate eyes upon her. Yet she had banished the feeling, refusing to believe that anyone or anything could fell her mighty angel.

_Well, now I know the truth,_ she reflected grimly. _So what shall I do with it?_

"Norry, I am going to return to Palestine," she said suddenly, her head flying up from its forlorn tilt. "Will you go with me?"

The old caretaker sat up in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"I am going to return to Palestine. I am going back for Erik."

"Madame," he stammered, "have you forgotten why we left to begin with? And who knows where they could be by now?"

She shook her head, her blue eyes flaming with determination. "I _must_ find them—I will find a way. Perhaps I can write to Sister Helena, or Father Jakob. Or maybe I need only return to Acre. Or Raoul…if he… I cannot say. There are several things that must first be done in Prague, but I will discover what happened to them, I swear to you." She placed her hand on his wrinkled old one, her face unyielding with a certainty beyond her years. "Will you go with me?"

Norry studied her face for a moment, and then nodded. "Of course."

Christine leaned against the cushioned seat and offered him a twisted smile, cold confidence pulsing through her veins and bleeding from her person.

The sight chilled Norry to the bone.

"Good," she murmured, and turned back to her window.

* * *

A/N: 

Story Recommendation: _Buds Bursting Into Bloom_, by Chatastic

This is my wonderful Chatastic's masterpiece. And while I may be biased, as she is my beta, I have to pass this hysterical diddy along to you. After the last few depressing Frat chapters (forgive me!), I thought some clever humor was called for. And _Buds Bursting Into Bloom_ is just that.

Chat has researched and read many a dreaded Mary Sue phic, the worst of the worst, and compiled her discoveries into one delightfully perfect, gorgeous, and dumb-as-a-rock Mary Sue named "Cat". Humor is hard to do, and Chatastic's writing style is intelligent, creative, and witty. She parodies everything, from the classic ALW "mirror scene", to the Paris Commune. Even the Phantom's name does not escape her sharp sense of spoof.

The best part about it? The spoof actually has an interesting story line, amidst the dream sequences, 80's rock ballads, and plethora of innuendoes.

Enjoy!


	33. Family Affairs

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". Thanks also to Siren and Cookies for helping me brainstorm._

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)_

_An extra-long chapter for those who find it difficult to wait more than a week between updates. You know who you are…: )_

**

* * *

Family Affairs **

Lavender…

The scent burned his lungs. He breathed it in, its power intoxicating his mind, taking him to a place far from his repugnant surroundings.

For Erik, the stench of death existed in a multitude of forms. The decay of a corpse. His musty cellar. Metallic blood. Earth freshly turned by a shovel. A pile of lilies upon a coffin. Even a coffin itself—the sweet smell of pine had lulled him to sleep many a night.

Now it was lavender, though, which would forever carry the smell of death. He had died many times, enveloped by the heady fragrance. And when he breathed his last, he should like it to be lavender that greeted him. It was much more pleasant than the reek of rotting flesh which now hung in the air.

Erik lay upon his straw mattress, hands tucked behind his neck, eyes scanning the gloom above him. The room was long and high, its thick stone walls lined by grimy, skeletal prisoners slumping against their pallets, knees tucked up to their chests, resigned to their wretchedness. Some of the creatures chose to sleep the hours away. Others whispered in quiet comradeship the latest tales: whose wife or brother had most recently visited; who had foolishly requested bread to stave off hunger or a candle to stave off the cold, and had subsequently been dragged to the lower levels. And some chose to contemplate their past lives in silence, their ruminations only increasing the keenness of their misery as the cries from the lower levels pulled them from their dreams and returned them to their nightmare world.

The prison itself was an ancient affair. At some point, its impenetrable walls had served as a fortress of sorts—more than likely for an Ottoman palace. Erik could tell by the narrow staircases and doorways. When he passed by the slit windows or stood in the high-walled courtyard, familiar onion-topped towers stood stark and mighty against the sky, telling him what no Turkish guard had bothered to—he was in Constantinople.

Istanbul, as the Turks preferred to call the city.

"Number seven-thirteen."

Erik glanced at the two guards standing above him, their eyes carefully averted from his face. He unhurriedly sat up, leaning upon his elbow with the ease of a shah in his harem.

"Why do you turn away, gentlemen?" he hissed. "Do you not find my face interesting?"

"You have a visitor," the guard muttered, his gaze fixed upon the wall.

Erik stiffened in surprise. He slowly rose from his pallet, gesturing to the chains at his feet. "If you will."

The Turk stooped over and cautiously unlocked the chains from the wall. The notorious escape attempt was never far from the guards' minds; all had been warned what this man was capable of. Even now, the Turk felt the man's unsettling gaze upon him. Straightening his shoulders, he cleared his throat and glared at the prisoner.

"You will address me as _Effendi_, number seven-thirteen." The Turk sneered and held out his club, gesturing for him to follow.

Irons clanking upon his thin ankles, Erik fell into pace between the guards, chin tipped defiantly as he strode the length of the room. Fire shot through his bruised feet and radiated up the length of his legs. He ground his teeth against the pain and forced his muscles carry him forward.

Fortunately, his feet were not cramping as much as they had immediately after the caning; through sheer power of will, he had laboriously kneaded and stretched his swollen toes to keep them from curling, and therefore, was fairly certain there would be no lasting damage. If, of course, they healed before the _next_ inevitable caning.

The other prisoners ceased their talking for a moment, staring at his horrific face as he passed. Some turned away awkwardly; others shook their heads in amazement, wondering what kind of tortures had caused such deformity.

Not long ago, the gossip had centered on the arrival of a new prisoner—a sorcerer once known as the Trapdoor Lover. These men who whispered the gossip—they were the brightest of political and criminal minds, hailing from places as far away as New York City, and as close as Ankara. Murderers, thieves, and politicians; one or two of them had even been a part of the Persian court at Mazenderan during his service to the shah. All of them had risen to dizzying heights of power in some form, thus becoming a threat to the Turkish sultan and ensuring their tumble to the lowest of the low.

Men who had once been great were now living in squalor and filth. And still, they looked upon him as a parasite of humanity, this foreigner with the devil face.

Erik scoffed at them as he walked by, his golden eyes bright and belittling.

"Keep your eyes down, _ayip_!" The guard to the left sneered.

Erik stared at the man, his lips curling.

"_We are not friends, Effendi?" _

The guard swung around to face Erik, startled to find him several steps behind instead of beside him.

"Did you say that?"

The prisoner merely quirked an eyebrow, and continued down the hallway towards a large, copper-tiled room.

"_What a pity. You do not want me for an enemy."_

"I heard it again!" The Turk turned to the other guard. "You heard it? That voice—it was so close, it was as if it was inside my—"

"Inside your head?" The second guard barked. "_Itouulu itt!_ The creature is a sorcerer—he is playing games with you." He shoved the top of his club into Erik's back. "You there! If you do not want several more of those scars reopened, shut your mouth!" Pulling open the barred door, he motioned the prisoner inside.

"_My mouth has not yet opened, Effendi," _Erik smirked at the burly Turk as he strode into the room.

Eyes growing round in shocked outrage, the guard raised his club to strike the insolent man.

"Stop!" The cry rang through the room, halting the Turk's hand. A thin man rose from the splintered desk in the corner and stepped forward, his eyes taking in the filthy prisoner. "I want him alive, you idiot."

The visitor did not cut an interesting figure by any means. Physically unimposing, he tried to make up for it with plain, immaculate clothing tailored in the severest of lines. He possessed a pale, round face that was all the more emphasized by slicked, silvered hair and oval spectacles perched on the tip of his sharp nose. Nothing unusual about the man…

Save for his eyes.

"My God," murmured the visitor, his eyes widening in disbelief of what he saw. And then they hardened to a savage brilliance, his mouth twisting in something akin to a smile.

"Ah, Monsieur Phantom! Forgive me; I did not know you at first. Your face, you see—it really is quite monstrous." Mas Quennell stepped forward, extending a hand to the man. "It is a great honor for me to at last make your formal acquaintance. Our two previous meetings have not afforded me the opportunity, as you were somewhat _overwhelmed_ at the time. I believe the first time we met, I punched you."

Erik scrutinized the offered skeletal fingers, his own thin hands chained in front of him. "Yes," he said coldly, "it was the same night you nearly strangled Christine to death."

"It had to be done—the girl knows too much." Mas drew his hand back and continued on, ignoring the man's slight. "I must say, I am disappointed. I had expected more worthy a rival in you. Instead, I find you languishing in prison. Tell me, how do you like your view?"

Erik leveled his own hard eyes at the man. "I have seen better."

M. Quennell chuckled. "Touché. A clever reply. It is a pity you are such a horror—you could have been a celebrated man." Mas slowly circled him, sizing up his adversary. "We are not so different, you and I."

"I highly doubt it. I do not murder women and children."

"Of course not. You only murder their husbands and fathers." The visitor chuckled at his jest. "We are alike—it is true! I have spent a great deal of time these past few months studying your life, Monsieur—your years with gypsies, advisor to the shah, extortionist and resident ghost of the _Opera Populairé_. Simply amazing." Mas cupped his chin in thought. "The whole Chagny affair was rather undignified, however; wouldn't you agree? Threatening to take the poor boy's life, all for the love of a capricious little chorus girl who left you in the end." He smirked. "She has abandoned you again, I see."

"Do not _dare_ to speak of her—"

"And drowning poor Philippe de Chagny like that." The man shook his head. "Although, you did save me a good deal of trouble, in that respect. The Comte was becoming much too great a threat, both to me and the _Fraternité_."

Erik's eyebrows quirked in surprise; the fact that Philippe de Chagny had been a threat to Mas Quennell was news to him. He tilted his face sardonically. "You are certain that I killed the Comte, then. From what I had understood, Chagny's death was ruled an accident. He had ventured into the cellars after his brother, only to slip and drown in the waters of the underground lake."

Mas barked. "Oh come now, Monsieur. He threatened your sanctuary—invaded your stronghold and compromised your power. Of course you murdered him! I would have done the same. As I said, we are similar creatures; we know what we want, and we take it before anyone else has the chance to. Power is lifeblood to us. When someone threatens our power, then we destroy them. We are steely, soulless machines, Phantom; it is our way of life."

"I used to think so," Erik murmured.

"I suppose you mean your little Comtesse," Mas sneered. "Yes, she seems to have caused your very foundation to crumble. But no matter. This weakness of yours shall soon be taken care of."

Erik glared at the visitor. "What do you mean?"

"The Orient Express."

The prisoner paled at the words, all blood in his body suddenly ceasing to flow.

Mas smiled as his revelation drew its desired effect. "We know that your lady and her party took the _Express L'Orient_ north from Constantinople. While we have yet to discover her final destination, she shall be found, soon enough." The corners of his mouth twisted into a wry grin. "You will tell us."

With a cry of rage, Erik flew at the contemptuous man, plowing into his midsection and throwing him to the floor. Cuffing Mas across the face with his irons, he whipped his chains around the man's neck and buried a knee in his back, pinning him to the ground.

"Leave her alone, do you understand?" he growled through clenched teeth. "All that she wants is to live in peace with her son!" Two strong sets of arms grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him off of the struggling visitor, but Erik's fingers held fast to the chains. "Tell your crew of fools to let her be, or I will crush your throat with my bare hands!"

"…Then kill…me," Mas choked, daring the man to do just that.

A third prison guard came barreling into the room, raised his club high, and struck Erik across his shoulders. A blinding flash of pain streaked through his back and into his nerves. Head spinning wildly, he released his captive and put hand to the ground to steady himself. The Turks immediately dragged him off of the sputtering man and tossed him into a corner, their clubs high and ready to strike.

Gasping for air, Mas held up a hand. "No—wait—!" Coughing and sputtering, he pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to the prisoner. He towered over Erik, his eyes fixed on his face, breathing heavily from the attack. Blood streamed from the corner of his mouth where iron had connected with flesh; whipping a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the wound, then tossed the soiled cloth at Erik's feet.

"I have tried to be patient, Monsieur," he spat. "Cooperative, even. But no more!" Still rubbing his throat, he turned to the second guard. "Make him suffer, but do not kill him. I want to know _where_ the Comtesse is and _where_ the oath is—he knows the answer to both of these questions. You know where to find me."

Through a thick haze, Erik watched the man turn on his heels and retreat, his form twisting and mingling with the black grid of bars suspended from the ceiling. His eyes skimmed over a system of pulleys and ropes, then fell back to Mas as he walked through the doorway.

"Wait," he called.

Mas spun around and glared at the heap in the corner.

"I wonder," Erik continued, struggling to sit up, "whether your Turkish friends would be so apt to assist you if they knew you were Russian instead of French."

The visitor went rigid, his unusually emotive eyes clouding over. "You are mistaken, Monsieur. I am French."

Erik persisted, now aware that he had squarely hit on a susceptible spot. "You were born an exile in Russia, correct? Raised in Russia? Therefore, you are Russian. And as these loyal Turkish soldiers know, Russia is their mightiest enemy."

The guards glanced from one man to the other, unsure of what to do. He pressed on.

"I am simply curious to know why they would desire to help a Russian—"

"French!" bellowed Mas Quennell, his anger boiling over. "How dare you presume otherwise? Unlike you, monster, I had a family—parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. All French. The greatest political minds of France, in fact—"

"Then why were they exiled?"

The visitor sneered. "That is none of your concern, creature—"

"Surely the _greatest minds_ would be welcomed into society," Erik coolly cut in. "Why exile?"

"Because he was _too_ great! _Too_ powerful!"

"Who is _he_?"

"They were afraid of his vision, his ideals for France, for the people," the man rambled on, his eyes gleaming with madness. "And they were too ignorant to understand his _brilliance_, so they executed him. He could have led the people to glory! But _I_"—he straightened his bony shoulders—"_I_ have arisen in his place, and I _do lead_!"

Erik stared at the man in disbelief. "You _cannot_ mean who I think you mean." And then he began to laugh—a cruel sound meant to taunt the madman.

"Tell me M. Quennell, are you called 'The Incorruptible'?"

"Enough—"

"A scholar of Rousseau? A follower of the Cult of the Supreme Being?"

Mas snarled. "You know _nothing_—"

"When you _lead_ your pathetic, power-hungry _Fraternité_, your leftover Jacobin pretenders, which day of the week do you convene? Perhaps it is Nonidi or Décadi." Erik laughed again. "And then you _must_ recess during the months of Thermidor and Fructidor, when the heat is unbearable. I suppose the ninth of Thermidor is considered a holy day of mourning for a martyred saint—"

"I _am_ He—His very flesh and blood!" With a howl of outrage, Mas grabbed a cane from the guard to his left and held it high over his head, poised to inflict a mighty swing upon the prisoner.

Erik thrust his chained wrists into the air before the club connected with his flesh, effectively blocking the blow. Twisting the chains about the weapon, he quickly disarmed his attacker and grasped the club, pointing it at the Turkish guards before they could strike at him. His steady, wary gaze swept from one man to the next, finally coming to rest upon a furiously trembling Mas Quennell.

Somewhere just beyond the room, he heard the quiet sound of a pistol being cocked, and knew it was trained on him. There would be no escape, yet again. With a snarl, he clutched the cane between his hands and cracked it upon his knee, snapping it in two. He tossed the broken weapon at the thin man's feet.

"You know my weakness," Erik murmured low and deadly, "and now I know yours. It appears we are _both_ insane, Gospadin."

He held the visitor's eyes, his own glistening in triumph. At last he turned his face, dismissing the man. "You may go now," he said, his voice laced with bored indifference. "I have nothing more to discuss with you."

Mas paled, rooted to the floor in utter disbelief. Slowly, he stooped to pick up the cane, pausing as if considering whether to strike the man for his arrogance. With a growl, he then hurled the broken stick across the room like a petulant child and turned on his heels.

"See that he is punished in the best way you know how!" he cried, pointing to the prisoner. "Make him suffer—do not kill him, but see that he pays." And with those final words, he stalked through the door, slamming the bars behind him.

The Turkish guards turned to Erik, brandishing their clubs, eyes gleaming. The third crossed the room, tugging at ropes and moving pulleys. The second swung his arms around to loosen the muscles in his shoulders.

"So, number seven-thirteen, are you ready?" whispered the first, a dark smile spreading across his face.

Erik grimaced. Pain was no stranger to him, but it was still pain. _This is going to hurt,_ he thought. With a sigh, he gestured to the man.

"As you will, _Effendi_."

OOOOO

Christine pressed the flat of her palm to her eyes, struggling to still the spinning in her head. For a brief moment, a flash of pain had throbbed in her heart, and she swore she had heard her angel cry out her name. And then the sound and pain was gone, leaving behind only a dull ache in her chest. The experience, however, had shaken her to the core. Shuffling baby Sasha in her lap, she reached for her teacup with trembling fingers, only to slosh the brown liquid over the rim as it rattled in its saucer.

Gospazha Borochova glanced up from Benyamin, her concerned eyes sweeping over the young woman. "_Ribyonuk_?" she asked, and patted her midsection.

Christine shook her head, smiling weakly. "No, no nausea today. I just miss my husband—that is all." She gestured to the gold band upon her finger, then touched her heart.

The Russian woman nodded. Though the two women could not speak each other's language, their like experiences had drawn them to each other in mute understanding, and served as a groundwork for what was quickly becoming friendship.

Nearly four weeks ago, Christine had written cryptic letters to Sister Helena and Father Jakob in Jerusalem, inquiring after the fates of the missing three. Gospadin Borochov had cleverly suggested that the letters be mailed via the Church of the Virgin Mary before Týn, to give the appearance of official church business. This plan, however, also meant that any responses would be returned to the Prague _kirche_, and would require a constant eye upon incoming mail. Thus, the task fell to Ze'ev.

Christine and Rhivka would pass their time together in the Brno Pension's worn parlor, laughing at each other's conversational charades and waiting anxiously for the Gospadin's return. Other days, they would stroll about the city in search of fountains and parks, the twins settled in the lovely black pram Ze'ev had purchased, Jean-Paul darting back and forth in pursuit of Prague's various pigeons.

Sometimes Norry would walk with them, usually on his way to the city records office to read over the Austrian police's registers, which chronicled the comings and goings of Prague's travelers. Henri would also accompany the ladies on their walks, gesturing left and right at statues, flowers and trees, rattling off random details about the allure of each place. On several occasions, Christine and Rhivka had been forced to step into a ladies' boutique to escape the endless drivel.

"Maman?" Jean-Paul tugged at the ruffled trim of her dress.

"Yes, little man?"

"I want to play."

Christine looked at the boy in confusion. "Well…play. You have plenty of shiny new toys." She gestured to the brightly colored blocks, animals, and soldiers scattered across the floor.

"No. I want to _play_." The boy toddled over to the upright piano pushed against the rose-sprigged wall and flung his arms over the bench, pulling himself up.

"Oh." Smiling apologetically to Rhivka, she returned Sasha and scooted over to her child, helping him onto the piano bench before he toppled the thing. Pushing back the lid, she hovered over the ivory, unsure of what to do. Finally, she slid onto the bench next to her son and placed her hands on the keys.

"Maman!" Jean-Paul scolded, scowling at his mother. "Not _there_. Papa sits _here_." The boy pointed to the right side of the bench.

_Of course,_ Christine remembered. _He always keeps the unmasked side of his face closest to Jean-Paul, to avoid prying fingers._ "My apologies, _mon petit_," the mother smiled, and moved to the other side of her son.

The boy solemnly nodded his approval and readied his hands over the blacks and whites, waiting to begin.

Christine bit her lip nervously. She had never been good at playing the piano; what precious little her father had taught her had long been forgotten. Erik, at one time, had taken it upon himself to teach her to play. After two grueling lessons, however, he had thrown his hands up in the air, declared her an inherently bad pianist and suggested she stick to singing. She had not minded, for she much preferred to listen to him play.

Now, however, she wished she had paid closer attention.

She crooked her head in thought, then turned to her son. "Jean-Paul, why don't _you_ show _me_ what you have learned? Perhaps you can teach your Maman to play."

The boy brightened at the prospect and promptly began to press one key at a time. With a blunt tone, he glanced up at his 'pupil' and explained "this is _C_", or "_F_ is next to _G_", his tiny fingers sliding from one note to the next.

Christine was truly taken aback by how much Jean-Paul had learned from his teacher. It should not have surprised her—Erik was an excellent tutor. She had secretly wondered, though, whether her harsh, critical angel possessed the patience to teach her little son. She should not have doubted.

Hugging her boy to her, she sang his praise. "Oh, _mon fils_, I am so proud of you! You make your Maman very happy."

The toddler giggled and squirmed in her embrace, his tiny fingers reaching once more for the ivory keys.

For a good part of the afternoon, Christine and her son sat at the piano, plunking out melodies and singing silly Breton songs. Sometimes Rhivka would join them if she recognized a tune, her own bashful voice nearly eclipsed by the energetic singing of mother and son. Soon, however, the twins grew irritable and she rose to take them back to their room.

Christine watched as Jean-Paul toddled over to Benyamin and Sasha and planted a kiss on each of their foreheads; Rhivka smiled at the boy's kind gesture, then nodded to her friend and drifted from the room. The mother's heart pounded inside her chest at the sight, and she had a sudden urge to determine her son's thoughts. Calling the boy to her, she settled him on her lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

"Do you like Benyamin and Sasha?" she asked.

The boy gazed up at her with innocent eyes. "I don't like the sounds."

"Yes, they cry a lot, don't they?" she agreed. "And they sleep all the time. Aren't they nice, though, when they laugh and smile?"

Jean-Paul thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

Christine brushed her hand across the boy's forehead, smoothing back several unruly curls. "Jean-Paul, how would like to have a _frere _or _soeur_, like Benyamin and Sasha?"

The child's eyes widened. "Two?"

"No, _mon petit_," she laughed, "only one. For now, anyway."

"I want a _frere_. A big one."

"Well, will you take a little _frere_ or _soeur_? They will get bigger in time, and then you can play games with them."

Jean-Paul frowned, pondering over the idea. At last he nodded. "Yes, I want one. Now?"

Christine smiled at her impatient child. "No, you must wait. We have to make sure that we are ready for your little brother or sister to live with us."

With a disappointed sigh, the boy buried his face in her dress. She pressed her lips to the top of his head, breathing in the smell of powder.

In truth, it was most likely too early to tell her son about the impending arrival of a new baby. There were a million different things that could happen between now and December—or at least, she thought it would be December. However, she was impatient as well. Impatient to begin her new life with her husband and children; impatient to put the past hurts and fears permanently behind them, and give Erik the 'normal' existence he had secretly yearned for. Christine felt as though her entire future perched precariously like a delicate vase on the edge of a table; that one slight tremor would send it tumbling over the molding, scattering crystalline shards across the floor. In a way, finally telling someone about the child—though that someone happened to be not three years old—enabled her to grasp the base of her life and hold it firmly in place.

Perhaps the precariously balanced future was why she had yet to visit the _Ceska Obchodni Banka_, and safe box number 665.

_If only I can wait until Erik arrives to go there, _she rationalized, concluding that it would be much safer with Erik by her side, should only dangers await her beyond the safe box.

"Maman?"

The small voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Yes Jean-Paul?"

"Does he have a Papa?"

"Who, little man?"

"My _frere_."

The mother smiled into her boy's curls. Jean-Paul had already decided the baby would be a _frere_.

"Yes, the baby has a Papa. He is _your _Papa, too."

The distinctive sound of a clearing throat resonated in the room and Christine spun around, her face flushing in embarrassment.

"Madame Reinard." Ever the gentleman, Ze'ev strode into the room and bowed, M. David fast on his heels.

"Gospadin," Christine murmured, her eyes instantly drawn to the rumpled white note he held in his hand.

"Christine," Henri said breathlessly, "we have just come from the church. Had a beast of a time convincing the old bat to let us take the letter. It's a good thing Sister Helena had enough sense to write her instructions on the back—"

"May I have the letter, _s'il vous plait_?" Christine said edgily, holding out a trembling white hand. Ze'ev placed it in her palm and she quickly slit it open, her eyes drinking in the missive's contents.

The Russian watched as her face turned deathly pale. A hand flew to her mouth and for a moment, he was sure the woman would faint.

"M. David, would you be so kind as to take the child upstairs to his room?" he asked.

Henri ignored the man. "My dear girl, whatever is the matter? He isn't dead, is he?"

Borochov hissed through his teeth. "That hardly helps, Monsieur."

"Henri, please take Jean-Paul," Christine pleaded, her voice quaking with barely-controlled emotion.

The _avocat _sighed. "Very well." Scooping up the confused boy, he gave his friend one last look of concern and reluctantly left the parlor.

Ze'ev stood before the woman and studied her face, then the carpet, a half-minute of silence falling between them.

"The news is bad?" he asked at last.

Christine nodded and handed him the note.

His eyes skimmed over the words and then he read it aloud, just to be sure of its contents.

"_To My Dear Friend,_

_I was overjoyed to receive you letter, and to learn that you and your household are indeed safe. I was truly saddened by the necessity of your departure, and wish most fervently that I could have bid you farewell. _

_In regards to your inquiry: I am sorry to be the bearer of unhappy news, but I must tell you that the man in question was taken into custody the very day of your leaving, and has not been seen since. Father Jakob believes he was most likely transferred to Constantinople, or somewhere in the vicinity. As to the other members of your party, I can assure you that at the time of this writing, they were in the best of health and care not three weeks ago, when they also took their leave of us. _

_I wish I could impart more to you, but this is all that I know. Father Jakob will not be responding to your letter, as he has also left our company for the time being._

_Please convey my sincerest wishes and prayers for happiness to your entire household. _

_With love from your lowly sister in Christ, _

_Sister Helena."_

The Russian folded the letter and returned it to the bewildered woman. "M. Nitot should see this; he will want news of his daughter."

She nodded and gravely tucked it into her skirt pocket, then buried her face in her hands, her shoulders silently shuddering.

Ze'ev waited patiently until her body stilled and she surfaced from her grief. At length, she raised haunted, red-rimmed eyes to his.

"I am going to Constantinople," she stated calmly.

"You cannot," he firmly replied. "You are with child. Risking your life and that of your baby's is the last thing your husband would want."

Christine closed her eyes, considering the man's words. _Yes,_ she yielded; _Erik would not want me to go to Constantinople…he would wish me to leave him there. However, Erik also told me to leave him that night so long ago, below the opera house. I did leave him—and it nearly killed him. I cannot leave him again. _She set her shoulders and repeated her resolution.

"I am going to Constantinople, Gospadin," she said.

"And your son?"

Christine closed her eyes in pain. "I…I do not know yet. But I must find Erik. My children need their father just as much as I need my husband."

Ze'ev sighed and crossed the room to the water pitcher. He filled a glass and walked back to the woman, dark eyes boring into her. "Very well; it is your decision." He handed her the glass, and she gratefully took it. "If you wish for Rhivka and I to care for your son until you return, we shall."

"Thank you," she whispered, knowing that he also meant they would care for her son, should she not return at all.

The Russian nodded. "Before you leave, however, I suggest that you do what you came here to do—what your husband asked you to do."

Christine studied the glass in her hand. "The bank. The safe box." She sighed. "I cannot wait any longer, can I? I must do this on my own."

"Yes," Ze'ev quietly replied, "you cannot postpone the inevitable." He thoughtfully stroked his beard. "Perhaps the contents may surprise you. You may find someone is waiting on the other side of the box, willing to help you."

"I suppose you mean Raoul." She wrapped an arm around her middle, suddenly terrified of the prospect that her childhood friend, her dead husband, could truly be alive. "What would I say to him, Gospadin? What if by some odd chance, Raoul is alive? How do I tell him about—about Erik?"

The Russian's eyes held hers. "You tell him the truth."

A weak smile played upon her lips. "Yes," she murmured, "I suppose it is that simple, really. Will you go to the _Ceska Obchodni Banka _with me tomorrow?"

Ze'ev consented. "Of course."

OOOOO

The piercing yelps of a peacock echoed through the courtyards, stirring the prisoner to life.

Erik rolled over in agony, the straw of his pallet crunching mercilessly against his bruised ribs; he did not doubt that several of them were cracked. Gingerly pressing his fingers to his rib cage, he sucked in his breath at the sudden rush of soreness. A quiet moan escaping his swollen mouth. He struggled to open his eyes, only to find that they too were nearly swollen shut.

_At least the left side of my face now matches the right,_ he mused grimly.

A cool, wet cloth touched his forehead and he flinched, his hand automatically grasping the wrist of whoever hovered over him.

"Where am I?" he muttered, his words slurred and strained. _Merde,_ he thought, _it even hurts to speak._

"The prison sanatorium," the deep voice answered. "You were brought here yesterday, unconscious, and have been so, since."

Erik released his grip on the wrist and let his hand fall back to his side. His mind struggled to recall what had happened yesterday. He remembered staring at a decorated copper tile…

_Yes, a copper-colored floor…the tiles cool beneath my face. And the pain…the guards standing over me…blow after blow…_

He tried to remember the events leading up to the pain.

_I had a visitor. A man. Russian…no, French. He said…_Erik frowned, fighting the haze that engulfed his mind.

_He wanted to know something…where the oath was, and Christine…_

"Christine!" Erik struggled to sit up, heedless of the pain pulsing through his body. Two muscled hands shoved his shoulders down, forcing him to lie still. He struggled against them. They did not know she was in danger. They wouldn't understand.

"Christine," he whispered again, falling back to the pallet in exhaustion.

The voice pulled open each of his eyelids, allowing a flash of white light to pervade his sensitive eyes. "The effect of the laudanum is wearing off. I will give you another dose."

"No!" Erik cried. He swung his arm around until it came into contact with rough cotton clothing, and clutched the material in his hand. "No," he repeated more firmly. "I want my mind. Leave me my mind."

Silence filled Erik's ears as the voice paused in thought. At last, it relented. "As you wish. I should warn you, though—the pain will not be pleasant."

The prisoner stiffly nodded. "I have suffered before."

And then the voice was gone, leaving the patient to his mind and maladies.

The voice had spoken true—the pain was nearly unbearable. However, it would have been more unbearable if, in his drugged state of mind, he involuntarily disclosed his wife's location. Anything was preferable to forgetting himself.

For hours he lay on the rough cot, combing through his reunion with Mas Quennell. Meeting the man had confirmed his suspicions: their hunter was insane. And then again, he was completely sane. His movements were not irrational, by any means; they were calculated, cunning, and entirely Machiavellian. The man was also utterly grandiose, and could not see his so-called "leadership" was driving many a member of his _Fraternité_ to ruin. Callous, egotistical…

_Perhaps Mas was right…we do seem to quite alike,_ Erik reflected bitterly, then quickly pushed the thought away. _However,_ _at least I recognize that I am a monster…_

Another spasm of pain shot through his limbs. He balled his fists and dug his fingernails into the flesh of his thin hands, forcing his mind back to his conversation with Mas. Somehow, in the midst of agony, his senses were always heightened and his mind, sharper.

_What was it that Quennell had said? Ah yes…that I am a murderer of fathers and husbands. I suppose that is accurate._ Erik swallowed painfully, moistening his parched throat. _He accused me of murdering Philippe de Chagny. Insightful of him… not even Christine had believed I was capable of doing such a thing. Or was it the other way around? That she believed me capable, but did not believe I could have…_

Erik had always felt a great remorse over the death of Philippe de Chagny. He had never truly disliked the man, for the Comte had been opposed to Raoul and Christine's plans to marry, and that had worked in Erik's favor. Philippe, while often cold and overzealous in his duties, was loyal to his family. And he had loved his brother. In fact, the only reason the man had ventured into the Phantom's lair was to search for his missing sibling.

Unlike the multitude of murders burned in his memory, Philippe's was the one killing that Erik could not quite recall. The drowning had all the markings of his siren's work—the song luring the poor Comte to his death in the lake—but the actual details were missing from his mind.

The night he had taken Christine, had nearly killed Raoul de Chagny; it had been a night of blinding madness. Yet in the dark days that followed, he had been able to reconstruct the details easily enough, based on the siren's many other songs. Philippe had triggered the warning current when he made his way to the fifth cellar and had wandered into the lake. At some point, most likely when he had locked Christine in her Louis-Philippe room to don her wedding gown, Erik had gone to investigate. He had taken care of the intruder, and returned just in time to fling his deviant angel from her room and lasso the boy.

As he again worked through the events of that fateful night, however, more and more discrepancies began to surface.

Had he been wet that night, or had he changed? Was the length of time between his descent into the lair and Raoul's arrival long enough to accomplish this specific murder? He had never before reflected upon the details; they had always been too painful to recall.

Now, however, as fire once more seared his body and ripped through his mind, he realized that he could not remember much at all.

OOOOO

The _Ceska Obchodni Banka_ was an old, imposing establishment situated on a city corner, not far from the Wenceslaus Square, the commercial center of Prague. The red-roofed structure was nearly six stories tall, and loomed over Christine with its intimidating window-eyes, as if it had been watching for her arrival.

On either side of her stood Ze'ev Borochov and Norris Nitot, offering what reassurance they could—which, at this point, was not nearly enough to still her quaking hands and knees. This was it. Erik would not be there by her side as she took this step forward; this was a secret that she would have to uncover on her own.

Christine took a deep breath and lifted her chin, steeling her eyes straight ahead. Clutching Raoul's note tightly in her little fist, she purposefully swept through the heavy doors and into the foyer of the grand _banka_.

Only the dull echo of muted voices assured her that anyone was there at all. There were little to no customers at this odd hour of the morning, which was what Ze'ev had counted on. Fewer people meant fewer ears who heard, fewer eyes who saw.

One lone clerk sat behind a row of empty windows—a younger man, mustached, with a high brow, narrow eyes, and a rumpled suit—drumming his fingers on the counter in boredom.

Christine plastered a smile upon her face and approached the man. "I wish to access my safe box. Daaé, number six-six-five."

"How do you spell your name, Madame?" he asked in broken French.

"D—A—A—E."

The clerk nodded and bent over a file box, his neck flushing crimson under the lovely woman's steady gaze. His nervous fingers flipped through the cards until he came to the specific account. Skimming the words, he cleared his throat and glanced up at the woman with a puzzled expression.

"There is a note on your account card, which says there are…ah…rules—no—terms…what is the word…"

"Stipulations?" Ze'ev offered.

The man bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Yes. Stipulations. A word—a secret word should be given, and…"

The clerk leapt up from his chair and ran into one of the back rooms, out of sight. After several minutes had passed, though, and he still had not emerged, the three began to glance at each other anxiously. Christine was just about to suggest it might be wise to leave when the mustached man emerged what appeared to be a bookkeeper carrying a large envelope.

The bookkeeper greeted the customers and opened the envelope, pulling out a sheet of paper and a small _Carte de Visite_ photograph, which she immediately recognized as one she had sat for in England during her wedding trip. Holding it up in front of his eyes, the man studied it, glanced at her, then back to the picture again. He then passed the _Carte_ to the clerk and allowed him to look at it while he read over the sheet of paper.

Christine twisted her hands impatiently, waiting for the men to finish their quiet conference. At last the bookkeeper turned to her. "Madame, I have in front of me several…well…rather odd questions that must be answered before I take you to your safe box." He frowned at the paper, then read in a clear, precise voice—

"Little Lotte wheedled her mother, was kind to her…"

Christine threw back her head of curls and laughed in delight. _How very like Raoul_, she mused, all feelings of foreboding tripping away as the nonsensical words spilled from the sober banker's mouth.

The man cleared his throat, and she promptly quieted.

"She was kind to her doll," she replied.

He nodded. "She took great care of her—"

"Frock."

"—and her little red—"

"Shoes."

"And…" the man peered up from behind the paper.

"And her violin," she smiled, waiting for the next prompt. To her disappointment, however, the bookkeeper simply slid the paper back into the envelope, his questioning at an end.

"Very good. The clerk will take you back to your safe box, Madame Daaé, if your companions will wait here." He crisply bowed to the woman and motioned for the young clerk to lead her away.

"I will return shortly, Messieurs," she said to her friends.

Ze'ev nodded. "We shall remain here in the foyer, should you need us."

She followed the clerk through a windowless hallway, past several vaults. As she walked, she whispered the rest of Little Lotte's tale, the familiar words calming her nerves.

"…but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music…"

The clerk stopped in front of a large vault, cranked it open and swung the door, motioning for her to wait outside. Slipping into the secured room, he hastily returned with a metal box tucked under one arm, with the numbers '665' embossed on the front. He led her further down the hall to yet another room, furnished with a heavy mahogany desk and chair, a lamp, and several paintings upon the wall.

The man set the safe box on the desk and unlocked it, then handed her the key. "If you wish to keep the safe box," he explained, "you will need this next time you visit us. Leave the box on the desk when you finish, and I shall put it away. I will just be outside the door, Madame." With a bow not quite as eloquent as the bookkeeper's, he left the woman in peace.

Christine's hands trembled as she lifted the metal lid, not knowing quite what to expect. To her surprise, the only thing that resided in the box was a small leather satchel, filled entirely with a stack of papers. She carefully slid the parchments onto the desk and sat in the chair, feeling very out-of-place in such a business-like setting.

The first paper that caught her eye bore the gold embossment of the Chagny crest at the top. Upon further inspection, she found that is was a letter from Raoul. Her insides twisting into knots, she lifted the paper and read the familiar handwriting.

_My Dearest Little Lotte,_

_Welcome to Prague! _

_Truly, this is a wretched way to begin a letter such as this, but I can think of no better words at the moment. How does one tell his wife that he has been living a life completely unbeknownst to her, and because of this lie, has caused her a world of heartache? I will not go into the details of this life until I see you face-to-face, but know, my dearest wife, that I only did what I had to do as a brother, husband, father, and patriot. _

_Because you are now here in Prague, I can only assume you received my previous letter instructing you to open your brooch, and thus discovered the sealed note behind the portrait. I am sorry to ask you to give up your life in Paris, but I find as the trial looms over me, drawing nearer and nearer, it calls for strength that is beyond me. I cannot live without you and our little son. There is a charming old town home that I have purchased for us here in the city, where we can safely raise Jean-Paul with the love our little man deserves…"_

Christine's eyes clouded with tears and she set the letter down, overcome with sadness. _So Raoul had intended for me to come to Prague,_ she considered. _Before the trial even began, in fact. At some point, he had apparently sent me a letter, or was planning to, but something happened to it…_

Anxiously biting a fingernail, she picked up the letter again.

…_You will find amongst my papers all that you need to assume a new identity—certificates, a bank account, calling cards—please take them with you when you leave for our little house…_

She ruffled through the stack and found, near the top, the papers he referred to. "Madame Daaé," she read softly, smiling at the thought of taking up her mother's name.

…_The rest of the papers are to be left in the box for safe keeping. They are pertinent to the upcoming trial, and must remain hidden until they are needed…_

Christine carefully sorted through the other sheets, her face becoming grimmer with each page she turned. Endless amounts of information—just as Ze'ev Borochov had spoken of—all implicating the _Fraternité _in their dealings with the _Narodnaya Volya_. Memorandums discussing the planned assassination of the Czar. Ledgers with detailed records of money transactions between the organizations. Minutes taken at the _Fraternité_ meetings, telling not only of their involvements with the Russian radicals, but other clandestine groups as well.

This was the evidence that had gone missing when Raoul had died. It had gone missing because he had never returned to claim it for the trial. He had never returned to claim it because he had died. "And that is that," she murmured with finality.

In all of the information before her, however, something seemed to be missing. At first, she could not quite put her finger on it. As she sorted through the papers a second, then a third time, though, the frightful memory of icy fingers wrapping around her neck came to her. And cold, cruel words…

"_She does not have the Fraternité's oath; she said as much, herself…"_

"The oath!" she gasped, a hand flying to her throat. The oath was the item that was missing. In all of the papers before her, initials had been cleverly substituted for names, the members' identities carefully omitted. Ze'ev Borochov, however, had told her that the oath contained a list of every member's name, dating back to the very beginnings of the brotherhood. The oath was the key; without it, the pile of letters, bank accounts, and minutes would fail to incriminate anyone, save for a mysterious "_Fraternité_."

She read through the rest of Raoul's letter, mainly instructing her in what to do with the box, her papers, and how to find their town home. An address was scrawled on the bottom of the letter:

…_Na Bojišti 25, Vinohrady residential district… _

Christine hurriedly gathered up the papers and shoved them into the satchel. Tucking them back into the safe box, she slammed the lid shut and locked it away, overwhelmed by the responsibility now resting upon her shoulders. Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to slow her racing blood and frantically beating heart, determining what her next move would be.

_Constantinople, of course. But first, the town home._

OOOOO

The three occupants of the carriage peered through the dusty windows in silence. Several minutes before, the brougham had stopped in front of a narrow, three-story town home: _Na Bojišti _25. The house was a well-kept, cheery affair with a pale green front, gabled windows, and a red shingled roof.

Christine had just assumed that the house would be rather neglected, since no one had resided there for at least a year, if not longer. However, every loving detail—right down to the billowing lace curtains behind open windows—told otherwise.

"Madame Reinard, I don't think this house is empty," proclaimed Norry, voicing her very thoughts. "Those geraniums in the window boxes have been tended to daily. And begging your pardon, while it could very well be Monsieur the Vicomte de Chagny livin' here, I don't think he could keep a geranium alive at all, let alone care for 'em like that."

"It _is_ possible that whoever resides here employs a housekeeper." Ze'ev replied, glancing anxiously at the woman.

Christine sighed edgily, ready for the whole affair to be over. "Messieurs, I find that all of these _secrets_ are wearing thin. Raoul purchased this home. Since I have neither record nor knowledge of its ever being sold, it is, therefore, _my_ house."

Tugging her gloves into place, she opened the carriage door and stepped out, allowing the driver to hand her down. With a strong spirit and just as firm a resolution, she swept along the walkway and up the stairs of the town home, heedless of the dirt her cream-colored skirt was collecting. Raising her hand to the brass knocker, she paused over the metal for a moment, suddenly wary of what might lie on the other side.

_What if it is Raoul…_

_Or worse, what if it is not?_

Her two companions came up behind her, and the fears vanished as quickly as they had arisen. Grasping the knocker firmly in her little fingers, she rapped on the door once, then twice, and stepped back to wait for an answer.

For the longest time, only silence greeted their ears as they listened intently for footsteps, a voice, any sign of life. And then a faint shuffling of feet upon wooden floors greeted them, followed by the flutter of a curtain being pulled away. Christine held her breath and anxiously peered through the window to try to catch a glimpse of the town home's resident. Before she was able to, the white lace fell back again and the footsteps moved towards the door. The doorknob rattled…

Christine squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to know—afraid to see—

"Christine Daaé," said a low, aristocratic voice. "It has been a long time."

The voice—it was familiar. She knew this person.

Her lids flew open and she stared into a set of eyes…ice blue eyes. Eyes she would know anywhere. These eyes, though, were slightly different—older. And sadder.

"My God," she murmured, utterly baffled. Both Norry and Ze'ev stood on either side of her, also dumbstruck. She reached for the stair railing, her knees suddenly growing weak.

The man reached out as if to assist her, then abruptly halted as the stunned girl held up a hand to stop him. His eyes swept over the woman with concern. "Oh dear," he sighed. "I have given you quite a shock."

She shook her head, barely able to emit a sound. "You…you are…" Her throat closed, choking back the words.

"Dead?" the man finished. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. "Like many things, my dear lady, death is often only an illusion."

Christine, treading through the wake of her shattered truths and annihilated bravery, promptly—and very dramatically—fainted.

* * *

A/N: 

Thanks so much for reading, y'all! Please feel free to leave me a review, and let me know what you liked and didn't like about the chapter, as well as offer any feedback. One request – if you leave a review, no major spoilers. ;) You know what I mean. If you write about the twist, refer to it as "that thing at the end", etc.

I am posting information to my website about sociopathy, and the symptoms. I'll let you decide how Mas and Erik are different or alike, based on that. Its rather fun! See my profile for the address.

Story Recommendation: _Elainie,_ by The Scorpion

This fiction is a wonderfully dark, frightening tale to get you in the mood for Halloween season. Here in POTO land, we start celebrating early! _Elainie_ features our POTO characters, as well as another little ghost—and a rather tragic, often scary one, at that. The Scorpion loves to throw in twists and turns, and _Elainie_ is full of them. Its suspenseful, poetic language keeps you on the edge of your chair, and the author plays such wonderful psychological games with and through her characters, that the reader is left questioning what is real, and what is not.

And just because the story is categorized as "Horror," don't think it is devoid of romance. _Elainie_ has several wonderful E/C moments that are charged with very subtle, very powerful love of the most exquisite kind.

Enjoy!


	34. Echoes

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)_

_Five more chapters and an epilogue. We're getting close!_

**

* * *

Echoes**

**_September, 1882: Chagny Residence, Paris_**

Raoul de Chagny gently closed the door behind him, the miserable sobbing of his wife striking him to the heart. His hand tightened around the plain gold ring; oh, how he wanted to destroy it! To squeeze the pliant metal between his fingers until he had flattened it into a worthless, meaningless trinket, unfit to grace any finger, let alone his own wife's.

It took a vast deal of willpower for him to slip the evil thing into his pocket, unharmed.

_Damn him!_ his mind cried. _He has stolen her from me anyway, her so-called Angel of Music. And she had called him just that—'Angel'._

Her words rang in his ears, mind-numbingly torturous…

_"He is dead, Raoul; my Angel has flown away, so it is over now. I must return to bury him…"_

_Is it truly over?_ he questioned bitterly. _Of course not. It will never be over._

Raoul's face crumpled, and he fled down the hallway towards the sanctity of his office.

_Why would she want to return to bury him?_ Oh, he could see it now; his dear Little Lotte, nearly eight months with child, making her way down those treacherous paths just to give the monster a burial he did not deserve. He had had no choice but to offer to go in her place, she was so ridiculously determined. He angrily gritted his teeth at the thought.

_After all that she suffered at his hand—the madness, cruelty, manipulations and despair—still, this **thing**—this Erik—remains her 'Angel'. She said so herself!_

Raoul sighed. At least he knew the truth, now. Since the night they had fled the opera, he had never really been certain whether Christine's lingering melancholy was a consequence of her ordeal at the hands of a madman, or something else. It appeared to be the latter.

Love and loathing…

Both evoked such fierce sentiments; one could easily become the other.

_However, are they not both equally wretched? _the young husband reflected. _Both just as all consuming?_ _In truth, it matters not which she clings to—love or loathing. For whichever Christine holds in her heart, she holds not for me, but for him. _

_And it means, even in death, he has won._

The Comte yanked open the door of his study and fell into his desk chair, exhausted by the whole affair. He ran a hand over his face and began to sort through the piles of mail and documents, which had collected during his latest trip. So much had been neglected: estate business, preparations for the birth of their child, his duties to the _Fraternité. _

_I must be careful, or Mas Quennell will start to suspect, _he chided.

Just as if he had summoned the man with his very thoughts, there was a sudden rap at the door. It swung open before he had bid the person to enter.

"Mas," the Comte nodded to his manservant, careful to maintain a calm he did not feel. "It is good to see you again. I trust that all was well, while I was gone?"

"Of course, Monsieur," Quennell replied, his hard eyes glittering. "No nasty surprises. I have seen to it that your trunks are unpacked and clothing laundered. You will, no doubt, have to travel again very soon." The man leaned back through the doorframe, glanced up and down the hall, then firmly closed the door behind him.

"You met with Jaros Stanek, our investor in Bratislava?" he asked.

"Yes," Raoul said quietly.

"Good." Mas strode into the room with an abrupt air of authority, his hands folded behind his back. "The brotherhood will be anxious to hear how their money is being used. I am sure those fools in the _Narodnaya Volya_ are finding valuable purposes for it: purchasing pardons for their members rounded up for the next wave of trials, no doubt."

"No doubt." The Comte carefully hid his clammy palms under the desk. He swallowed.

Mas' snakelike eyes studied the man. He turned to the window overlooking the garden and pulled back the sheer curtain to watch the comings and goings of the gardeners. At last he spoke.

"The _Fraternité_ is meeting tonight, Chagny. They want to know what the executive committee of the _Narodnaya Volya_ intends to do to keep silent on their connections to us. You must be ready to give a report on your meetings with Stanek and the People's Will representative. Who did they send this time?"

"Ze'ev Borochov."

Mas chuckled, the sound strange and out-of-place. "They are not taking this issue lightly, then; that is good to hear. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Borochov is one of their more prominent members. He has been with them since their very beginning in St. Petersburg." He let the curtain fall back and turned to the Comte. "He's a difficult man to track, as he prefers to keep his personal life separate from his duties to the _Narodnaya Volya_. However, he surfaces from time to time when they need him."

His thin lips curled.

"It is hard to guard the secrets of the _Fraternité_ from those dearest to us, is it not?" Mas murmured, twisting the onyx ring upon his finger.

Raoul said nothing.

"Especially when one has such a lovely, _unhappy_ wife. I imagine it is difficult for her to understand why you must keep things from her. She must be extraordinarily persuasive, at times—"

"I have told my wife nothing, Mas," Raoul interjected, his hands trembling at the veiled threat. "And I will be at the meeting tonight, prepared to offer whatever assurances I can to those who worry for the safety of the brotherhood." He cleared his throat. "After all, the _Fraternité_ is my duty, and my heritage; just as it was my brother's, my father's, and those who came before me."

"And the oath?" the manservant snapped. "With the _Narodnaya Volya_ slowly crumbling to pieces, I want it hidden away. It could mean our death sentence if it were to be found."

"No one shall ever find it, Monsieur. I give you my word."

Mas Quennell bowed elegantly, his silver hair gleaming in the late afternoon light, and turned to go.

"I will be at the meeting tonight," Raoul continued, "however, I must first attend to a small matter on behalf of my wife. It will not take long."

The two men stared at each other, their authorities silently warring with one another. Slowly, a sneer spread across the elder man's face. "Now or Never," he murmured. "See that it does not." And with that, he strode from the room.

The Comte de Chagny watched the man's form until he was safely down the hallway. He then rose from his desk, gently closed the door, and peered out the same window Mas had earlier occupied.

"Hidden away," he repeated woefully.

Below him in the Paris home's garden, Norris Nitot was clearing away early autumn brush. Papillon Nitot was tying a scarf over her yellow hair and speaking to her father, her words too muffled to hear. Raoul heard the caretaker laugh; his eyes followed the old man's hand as he pointed to several rakes and shovels propped against an outbuilding.

A weary sigh escaped his lips. _I must ask Norry to lend me two of his gardeners and a pair of shovels for this chore of Christine's…_

A light suddenly sparked in the Comte's eyes. He crossed over to his desk, opened the left bottom drawer, and pulled out a stoutly made metal deed box. He thoughtfully tapped the old thing, as if testing its durability.

Perhaps he could take care of both problems with one deft move.

_Yes,_ he mused_, it will do nicely. What better place to hide the oath from the living, than with the dead?_

OOOOO

**_May, 1885; Na Bojišti 25, Vinohrady residential district, Prague_**

"…_so you claim you knew him…how?"_

"_Monsieur, I would rather not say; not until I understand what is going on…"_

"…_must wait until she is awake…suffered quite a shock, I am afraid."_

The voices stirring her to consciousness, Christine squeezed her eyelids and moaned. Heavy with sleep, she struggled to lift her hand to her face, and failed.

"I think she's wakin' up."

Norry. The last voice belonged to her caretaker. The other two…

"Madame de Chagny…Christine." A face hovered over hers, full of concern. Though her vision was hazy, she recognized him. Straight nose, fine blue eyes, blonde hair streaked with silver—the picture of aristocratic elegance. For a man who had been dead, he looked surprisingly well. Squinting, she rubbed her eyes, trying to clear the haze away.

"Mon—Monsieur, ah, le Comte," she stuttered, not quite sure how to address this person. The woman closed her eyes and shook her head, trying again. "Monsieur le Comte de Cha…."

The words died on her lips.

Chagny smiled and nodded. "You may call me Philippe, if you please, Madame. I am very aware that your son is now the Comte."

Christine stared at the man as if he had sprouted wings. "Where is Raoul?" she asked quietly.

A flash of intense pain crossed his features, and then it was gone. He laughed softly, the sound rather lifeless and forced. "You are surprised to find me, I suppose. In all honesty, I never expected to see you again. No one knew I was here, except for Raoul…"

An uncomfortable silence settled upon the occupants of the room, their eyes downcast, at a loss for words. Finally, the old Comte cleared his throat.

"Can I offer you anything? Water or tea? Something to eat?"

Christine's head swirled dizzily. "Just water, please," she replied as she struggled to sit up.

Philippe rose from his chair and crossed to a table set with crystal glasses and a decanter, giving her the opportunity to take in her surroundings.

The parlor was a modest affair; nothing like the man's former residence in Paris, and certainly a far cry from the affluent Chagny estate. It was comfortably elegant, though—divans and armchairs coated in rich cream fabric, walls papered in dark burgundy with gold fleurs-de-lys. The entire room was cluttered with furniture and knick-knacks from corner to corner: books, paintings, globed lamps, a piano; even a silver tea service that obviously had seen little use. All the comforts of home.

Christine gazed at one of the paintings. Dreamlike, she rose from the divan and moved closer. In the portrait stood a man, young and handsome, his hand proudly resting on the shoulder of his wife. Raoul and her, done the year after their marriage, before Jean-Paul was born. The original hung in the great hall of the Chagny estate.

Christine shivered.

_This was to have been my home…_

"Raoul had that delivered here, early last year. He thought it would make you more comfortable."

Christine jumped and glanced over her shoulder. She hadn't even noticed Philippe stood behind her.

The man offered her a polite smile and pressed a crystal glass into her hand.

Nodding her thanks, she lifted the cup to her lips and paused, suddenly unsure if she should be drinking anything given to her by this man. Her eyes darted quickly to Ze'ev, just in time to catch his brief shake of head. Lowering the glass, she set it on a table next to the portrait.

"I am afraid I'm not as thirsty as I thought, Monsieur," she said weakly.

He laughed again, and Christine decided that it was one of the saddest, most disconcerting sounds she had ever heard.

"You do not trust me, Madame de Chagny? No, of course not. Why should you, after all that you have been through? I can only begin to guess how you found your way here."

"Monsieur, where is your brother?" Christine gazed at the man with cheerless eyes and repeated her question. "Where is Raoul?"

"He is dead," he replied blandly. "You buried him yourself, nearly a year ago."

Christine closed her eyes. She had known. Deep inside of her, in the tunnels of Jerusalem, on the shores of Acre, and the bank in Praha, she had known.

"He was planning to bring you and Jean-Paul here to live with me," he continued, "and then he would join us later. All of the plans were made—bank accounts, furnishings, explanations to the Chagny estate managers as to your disappearance." Philippe shrugged. "Then he died, however, and it somehow seemed pointless for me to carry out the thing."

"Pointless?" She watched the man before her with incredulity and waited for him to continue.

Instead, Philippe simply turned to the portrait and bent forward to study some small detail in the paint, and the conversation once again lapsed into silence.

"Perhaps," said Ze'ev guardedly, "the best question would be, 'how is it you are alive?'"

"Or better yet, why did you pretend to be dead to begin with?" interjected Norry.

Philippe smiled and smoothed a finger over the lacquered surface, not bothering to turn away from the painting. "Norris Nitot, how I have missed you. Tell me—are the gardens at Chagny as lovely as ever? They were always splendid in May. Spring flowers everywhere, fountains, and fresh air. One of my most favorite places on God's green earth, save for Paris, of course. Raoul and I would often take the horses out—"

"Please, Monsieur," Christine cried, no longer able to contain her anxiety. "Please, tell us why you are here!"

Chagny glanced up from the portrait and started, as if noticing his guests for the first time. He shook his head. "Patience is a virtue that must be inbred in every woman of the French aristocracy, Madame. If you are to be the Comtesse—"

"I _am_ the Comtesse," she retorted quickly. "Or…at least, I _was_. But this is beside the point. That night after the opera…Erik…"

Patting her hand reassuringly, the aristocrat led her to one of the winged chairs and gestured for her to sit. "And you shall be Comtesse again, I promise." He sat across from her, his elbow balanced on the arm of the chair. "But I am being rude. You asked me a question."

"Yes," Christine said in exasperation. "You drowned in the lake underneath the _Opera Populairé_ four years ago! How could you do it? Raoul was beside himself with grief. And Erik—"

The man held up a hand. "Ah, but I did not drown, as you can see. And Raoul was not as grief-stricken as you would think. Not for long, anyway. As for your masked friend…well, I had rather hoped he would be blamed for my death, but no matter." He met her eyes, his own blue suddenly as cool and candid as she remembered them.

"What do you know of the _Fraternité_, Madame de Chagny?"

"Christine," Ze'ev whispered, warning her to answer with caution.

She caught the Russian's eyes and nodded. "Enough to know of our family's involvement, and to know why Mas Quennell wants me and my son dead."

"Alas, then you have only seen the unpleasant side of the brotherhood."

Christine sniffed. "Forgive me, Monsieur de Chagny, but I find nothing agreeable thus far about this _Fraternité _of yours."

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose it would appear that way to you. The _Fraternité_ has been under the most frightful leadership for nearly a decade, you see. Quennell has far too much sway with the brothers, to the detriment of the club. Before he came to us, however, the _Fraternité_ was a pillar of strength; a faceless, nameless power created by our very Jacobin ancestors, and existed solely for the betterment of France."

"It depends upon one's definition of 'betterment', Monsieur," Ze'ev retorted. "Somehow, I cannot see pitting young utopians and revolutionaries against the government and then leaving them to fail as 'betterment'. It rather seems you were playing a game of chess, but with much greater stakes."

"You condemn because you do not understand. In a market outside the old Paris Jacobin Club hangs a sign, which reads 'Here the impious clamor of the torturers, insatiate, fed its rage for innocent blood. Now happy is the land, destroyed the pit of horror; and where grim death stalked, life and health are revealed.' After the horror of the revolution, the name 'Jacobin' was synonymus with 'monster'. No one remembered their founding ideals of _liberté, egalité, and fraternité_, save for former members themselves. The purpose of our brotherhood is not only to carry on these ideals, but to moderate power between the government and the revolutionaries." Philippe sighed. "Yes, I suppose a former revolutionary such as yourself would have trouble understanding our principles."

Ze'ev started, his eyes widening. "How did you—"

"How do I know who you are? Come now, Gospadin. I may be a recluse, but it doesn't mean I am completely disconnected from the world. My brother was my utmost concern. When he was in Prague, I paid attention to his comings and goings. I knew he was frequently meeting with a _Narodnaya Volya_ turncoat here in Prague. And as you are now here with his widow and caretaker, I can only assume you have told them of your dealings with Raoul, and thus brought them here. But that is beside the point." He turned to Christine and smiled, his voice softening. "I was telling you why I faked my death."

The woman swallowed. "Please continue, Philippe," she whispered, her own voice barely audible.

"How my brother loved you," the old Comte shook his head as his mind strayed, the cool candidness abruptly vanishing. "I am glad to see that you still wear a wedding band in his memory. It is a sign of your good character."

Christine unconsciously covered the gold upon her hand.

"I must confess," he continued, "when I first learned of his intention to marry you, I was angered." His eyes sparkled ruefully. "Very well, I was panicked. Frightened. He was shirking his duty, betraying his heritage and his family. And in those days, more than ever, I needed him to be responsible. You see, Mas Quennell was planning to kill me."

All three froze at his sudden declaration, their eyes rooted to the man's face in shock.

Philippe chuckled. "Is it really so very surprising? M. Quennell is always planning to kill _somebody_. I knew too much about his past, and so he considered me a threat to his power. Mas and I have a long history together, as M. Nitot could tell you. He was my valet for nearly twenty years."

"But is was simply a ruse," Christine replied.

"Correct. Oh, he did all the things valets do, in order to maintain his cover. Mas was not supposed to be in France, understand; he was born an exile in Russia."

A look of confusion crossed the woman's face.

Philippe grinned indulgently. "Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Tell me, Madame, have you ever noticed the ring Mas Quennell wears?"

Christine searched her memory, trying to remember the small detail. "Yes. It is a heavy gold ring with an oval, onyx stone. If I recall, there were little etchings around the stone."

"Good, good. Excellent memory—very precise. The etchings read _liberté, egalité, fraternité_, in memory of our Jacobin forefathers. Not every member of the _Fraternité_ is given such a ring, however. It is a symbol of honor, meant to identify those who are descended from the Jacobin leaders who sat upon the Committee of Public Safety in the years of the Revolution: Tallien, Billaud-Varenne, Cambon, Collot d'Herbois, Robespierre—"

"Forgive me, M. le Comte," said Norry, "but didn't all of those men turn on each other in the end? Who's to say it won't happen again in your club?"

Philippe pointed at the old caretaker. "Exactly, Norris. It is the aspiration of the brotherhood to prevent such fractions from ever taking place again. This time, _fraternité_ comes _before_ _liberté_ and _egalité_. We have survived much longer because of it."

Ze'ev snorted. "If this practice of fraternity has worked so well, then why are you hiding from your fellow brothers?"

Philippe held up a hand. "I am getting to that, Gospadin. Patience, if you will."

"Monsieur," Christine pressed on, rapidly becoming irritated by the interruptions. "You were saying that Mas Quennell wears a ring because he is descended from one of the Jacobins. Which?"

"Have you not guessed yet, my dear?" he said softly. "Maximilien Robespierre. The Incorruptible of France. How could our _Fraternité_ be complete, without one of his descendents?" Philippe gazed significantly at each of the three people sitting in the parlor, as if he truly expected them to nod in agreement. "Oh, I know that Robespierre has no direct descendents. He had younger siblings, however, and cousins—most of who went willingly into exile after his marriage to Madame Guillotine. It is from one of these that Mas claims his heritage."

Philippe settled into his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It was in St. Petersburg that I found him twenty year ago—destitute, weak, dirty and poor, and lifted him up from exile to his current status. At first, the brothers were against letting a descendent of Robespierre join. After all, the man had gone mad in his desire for the perfect Revolution, and was executed in shame. Under my foolish persuasion and insistence that we needed Mas to perfect the _Fraternité_, however, they at last agreed.

"Although Mas was my manservant outside of the brotherhood, inside, he was powerful, God-like. He exerts a magnetic, charismatic passion that pulls a person in. They worship him." Philippe shook his head in disgust. "'The first maxim of our politics ought to be to lead the people by means of reason and the enemies of the people by terror. Terror is nothing else than swift, severe, indomitable justice; it flows, then, from virtue.' Robespierre said those very words before he began his Reign of Terror, and Mas Quennell clings to them like holy canon. He claims that what he does is for the people of France, but truly, protecting his own egotistical ideals is everything to him; protection of the people means nothing."

Christine held out her hands in bewilderment. "I do not understand, M. de Chagny. How could so many men simply allow him to control the _Fraternité_?"

Philippe shook his head. "Some are truly drawn in by his methods of terror. Those who are not simply say or do nothing out of fear. Of late, the _Fraternité_, like the original Jacobin Club, has been subjected to the systematic purging of members who, in Quennell's opinion, do not live up to the founders' rules. Raoul was one such victim. And I am the one who discovered Mas in Russia, at his weakest. Of course he wanted to kill me, and would have, if not for the warning of a lifelong friend. A friend who, sadly, also believes me to be dead."

"The Marquis de Bourges, Michel David," supplied Norry.

"Yes. It was Michel who warned me of Mas' plan."

"But…we have seen the Marquis at Quennell's very side!" Christine exclaimed. "He even sent his own brother to spy on me."

Philippe shrugged elegantly. "Of course. He has more to lose by opposing Mas than by siding with him. A simple game of politics, my dear. Do not take it personally."

"When one has a husband murdered and a son threatened, it is hard not to take it personally, Monsieur," she murmured darkly.

Philippe, however, either did not hear her, or chose not to.

"So, M. de Chagny," said Ze'ev.

"So, Gospadin."

Ze'ev smirked. "You have told us _why_ you faked your death. Indulge my curiosity—_how_ did you do it?"

Philippe smiled in amusement. "Ah yes! How does one feign his own death? Surprisingly, there are those about who are something of experts in this particular field."

"Gypsies," Christine murmured thoughtfully.

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you know of such things, Madame?"

She blushed furiously. "No. Well, that is, I have been told."

Philippe waved his hand in dismissal. "Gypsies carry a number of magical potions in their caravans. For the right price, they can be obtained. Zombie poisons, for example; they are made from a flowering plant found in the heart of Africa; they slow the breath and heartbeat down so much, that it gives the illusion of death. The effects of the poison wears off in several days and the person awakes."

"Like Romeo and Juliet," Christine asserted.

Philippe laughed. "You opera ladies and your romance. Yes, I suppose, minus a tragic love affair and a meddling friar. _My_ undertaker was moved by money, rather than good will. You and Raoul had already eloped by the time my 'body' was discovered, which made the undertaker's duties all the more easier."

"When did you reveal yourself to your brother?" Ze'ev asked.

Philippe immediately sobered. "After he and his bride returned from their wedding trip in England. He had to be told, you see. Mas was still living under the Chagny roof, and was a danger to everyone. Raoul was more than a brother to me; he was like my own son."

The old Comte's voice broke. "I wrote to him through the paid undertaker, asking him to come to Prague and I would explain all. Fortunately, after he left the Navy to become Comte, he never traveled with a valet; claimed his years as a sailor proved he could do very well without one. Therefore, Mas had no reason to question his being left behind."

He rose from the chair, crossed to the window and gazed out upon the street, masking the threatening tears from his company's sight.

"He came to Prague at once. In retrospect, perhaps I should have kept my involvement in the _Fraternité _a secret, but I could not. Our legacy had to be told to someone. So I explained to him the hidden heritage of our family, and the importance of the brotherhood. And what did he do?"

Christine shook her head.

"He went to Michel David and told him my will had instructed that he step into my place as secretary of the _Fraternité_! Never was I so proud of him and yet so frightened, than at that moment. Shouldering his duty as Comte de Chagny, as if he had been born to do it. Since he was Comte de Chagny, and a Chagny had _always_ served as secretary, the brotherhood readily agreed."

His eyes glazed over as he mused over his willful junior. "In the mean time, Raoul was secretly sending me money through an account under the name 'C. Daaé'."

"The entries in my bank ledger!" she exclaimed. And then, realization struck her. "You use the name C. Daaé?"

Philippe gave her an apologetic look. "From Raoul's end in Paris, it looked as though it was another of your household accounts. From my end in Prague, is was an account for one 'Charles Daaé', the name I used for my banking."

Christine face went ashen. "You and Raoul used my dead father's name?" she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could you?"

Philippe crossed the room and took her hand. "My dear Christine, please believe that the entire situation caused my brother a great deal of guilt. There were many times he wanted to tell you of the secrets he kept, but chose not to upon my persuasion. The greater the number of people who knew of my existence, the more lives would be endangered. He could not risk it."

"That's just it, M. de Chagny! He _did _risk it." She met his eyes, her voice soft. "You know he told others, because you knew who Ze'ev was only a moment ago."

"Ah. You are clever. Yes, I knew that he went to the _Sûreté_, against my distinct wishes, mind you."

"But why would you be opposed to that, M. de Chagny?" Ze'ev questioned fervently, rising up from his chair. "After all, if the _Fraternité _fell, you would be free to resume your former life. Something does not add up, sir. I wonder, how did the _Fraternité_ discover Raoul's plans to testify against them in the Trial of the Fourteen?"

Philippe stiffened. Blood drained from his face, leaving him pallid and pained. "You cannot understand the pain I suffered, Gospadin," he whispered wretchedly, his collected façade crumbling before their very eyes. He collapsed against his chair. "To watch my beloved boy turn against the very brotherhood our ancestors founded with their own sweat and blood, risking their lives for its existence. To see him reject our proud heritage, even his name…"

His face fell into his hands, his shoulders silently shaking.

Christine swiftly walked over to her broken brother and gently placed her hands on his arm, comforting him. "Philippe, please do not—"

"Christine, step away, now." Ze'ev quietly commanded, and the girl halted. He slowly advanced on the man, his face growing grim.

"Monsieur, I ask you again: how did the _Fraternité_ find out about Raoul and the _Sûreté_?"

Philippe gazed up at the man with haunted, desperate eyes. "I had to," he whispered. "Raoul was going to destroy the one thing which generations of Chagnys had a duty to preserve."

"Good God," Norry murmured.

Christine's hands froze on his shoulder. Slowly, they slid back to her sides and she stepped away in complete and utter shock. It couldn't be real. She hadn't heard properly…

"No," she breathed.

Philippe turned to his sister-in-law, pleading with her. "I tried to explain to him what I have told you: that the _Fraternité_ was noble and good, and that Mas was the evil one. Yet he was ready to raze all that our own father stood for! I didn't know what else to do…"

"Please stop!" she sobbed, her hands flying up to her throat. Her head was spinning with this revelation_. Raoul's brother…Philippe. Oh God, help me_, she prayed.

Yet he did not stop. "At the time, I had been so certain that duty came above all else. Duty. Always duty." The old Comte choked in anguish. "Now I know that _nothing_ was worth the life of my poor boy."

Blind rage welled up within the woman; she angrily swiped at the hot tears stinging her eyes. "Murderer! Your own brother!" she cried, glancing about the room wildly for something, anything to strike out with.

Norry caught her shoulders. "Madame, listen to me—"

She shook her head, pushing the caretaker away. "You murdered your own brother!"

"I did not mention his name, nor mine—only that there was one among their number which might destroy them, and encouraged them to cut ties with the _Narodnaya Volya." _Philippe grasped the back of the chair, his legs barely able to support his weight. "I swear, I would take it back if I could. I would gladly give my life for his! This agony shall haunt me till I die."

"I hope you burn in hell for this."

"I already do."

His blue eyes met hers.

Raoul's blue eyes…beseeching her, begging for forgiveness.

It was too much. She felt the weight closing in on her, constricting her heart. Tears slid down her cheeks as her lids closed against the pain…

_Against the blue…_

"Madame Reinard," said Norry quietly. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her up. "Perhaps it is time for us to leave."

Christine froze for a moment, then relaxed against the man and nodded. "Yes," she replied shakily, "I want to see my son."

Philippe's frantic eyes widened, filling with sudden hope. "Jean-Paul," he stuttered. "Jean-Paul is here, in Prague?" The man strode over to her with new energy, reaching out for her hand.

She quickly clasped her fingers behind her, taken back by his abrupt change of spirit. "He is, but he is of no concern to you. Good evening."

Ze'ev opened the parlor door and quickly guided her through.

The old Comte was not deterred. "Please, I would like to meet my nephew. Allow me see him—"

"No! Stay away from my child!" Christine shook her head vehemently and strode through the door towards the waiting carriage.

Philippe trailed after them. "Do not leave—not yet!" he cried, holding out a hand. "Please! I have no one here; no one at all, and I grow lonely…"

For a split second, Christine paused, considering his plea. Then she shook her head and continued on. "It is your own fault, Monsieur," she murmured to the ground, and closed the door. As she walked down the path towards the brougham, the sound of pitiful weeping followed her. Its echo would live with her forever, of course. Her insides twisted in disgust.

_Forgiveness cannot come so easily_, she reminded her traitorous heart. _Not yet. Possibly, not ever._

"_Mon Dieu_, I am through with running," she whispered passionately, her hands fisting at her sides.

_Tomorrow,_ she silently vowed, _I leave for Constantinople; Mas Quennell or no._

OOOOO

Christine eased into the rocking chair and settled Jean-Paul's sleeping form upon her lap. Wrapping her shawl around the both of them, she gently swayed back and forth, struggling to calm her bundled nerves.

_Dear God, for once I know what I must do, yet haven't a clue how to do it, _she prayed silently. _If I had some guidance…_

Lowering her cheek to her son's curly head, she rested it there, letting his warmth soothe her troubled spirit. An oil lamp flickered low on the table next to her, bathing the room in orange light and casting odd shapes and shadows on the walls around her. She focused on the little flame as it danced for her, its movements hypnotic and calming.

Tomorrow, she would have to leave her little man in the care of Ze'ev and Rhivka.

And it was breaking her heart.

She could not take him with her, of course. Istanbul was no place for her child, as Ze'ev had gently pointed out again this very evening. It would take many weeks for Norry and her to become familiar with the city and search the prisons. There was no way of knowing whether Erik would even _be_ there, let alone Nadir Khan and Papi Nitot.

Jean-Paul would only be in danger.

The mother sighed and pulled her son closer. _Erik would know what to do_, she ruminated sadly, then hastily banished the thought_. If I am to get through this ordeal and remain standing on my own two feet, I have to take care of myself this time. _

But oh, how she missed him.

A quiet rap on the door stirred her from her reflections.

"Come in," she whispered.

The door hesitantly creaked open, as if the person behind it was reluctant to intrude. And then Henri David at last slipped around the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against the wood, his eyes dark and unreadable.

It frightened her. "Yes, Henri?" she questioned unsteadily.

He only stared, lost for words. Running a hand through his golden brown hair, he breathed deeply and let his head fall back against the door. At last he spoke.

"Borochov tells me that you and Norry are leaving for Constantinople tomorrow."

She nodded slowly, worried where he was going with his questions.

"Then you are a fool, Christine Reinard."

Christine started.

"What, you are surprised to hear the blunt truth from me?" Henri sniffed sardonically.

"No," she said quietly. "This is the first time I have heard you use my married name, that is all."

The _avocat_ sighed dismally. "A man knows when to give up, I suppose. It is of no use to try and convince you to stay in Prague with me. But Istanbul is no place for you." He strode over to the rocking chair and knelt down, placing a hand on her arm.

"Christine, I am speaking plainly now. No hidden agendas, no secret desires, do you understand? Horrible things happen in Ottoman prisons. Not only to prisoners, but to their wives. It is not uncommon for a woman to be sold, or…or worse."

She swallowed, her eyes widening in fear.

"I have heard of several such cases from my colleagues; men not given to exaggeration. Believe me, your husband would not want you to go to him."

Christine closed her eyes, struggling to still the violent pounding of her heart. She breathed deeply.

"I have to go, Henri. No turning back."

The man pursed his lips and stifled whatever he had planned to say. "Very well," he whispered. "I will remain here in Prague, should you change your mind." He pushed himself up from the floor and hovered for a moment, as if weighing a decision.

"Where do you plan to go after you return from Constantinople?" he finally asked, his voice filled with false optimism.

"Paris." She laughed softly as his eyebrows quirked up. "Does that shock you, Henri?"

"Nothing shocks me anymore, my girl. Why Paris, might I ask? Last I knew, the city was the bed of all evil."

Christine smiled. "Because I am tired of running. Because they will always find me. And because I intend to end this thing, one way or the other. Why are you staying in Prague instead of leaving tomorrow with Ze'ev and Rhivka?"

"The same. I am tired of running."

Henri lightly touched a finger to her cheek and held it there, afraid to move it. "Good luck to you, Christine," he murmured.

She placed her palm over his hand and squeezed it, thanking him for his friendship. "And to you as well, Henri."

* * *

A/N: I did an in-depth author's interview at PFN this past week. 65 questions in all, everything from Frat characters and plot, to personal stories, to writing advice. I am posting the link in my profile, if you would like to find out about this authoress, and maybe learn a lil something. 

I am also posting information about Maximilen Robespierre to my website, for those who need a refresher. He's a fascinating person.

Story Recommendation: _Pomegranate Seeds, _by Titania of the Fae

If you're in the mood for a shorter read, take a look at this story. Pomegranate Seeds is a series of chapters in the works; each chapter could work as a stand-alone piece, but put together, they give us a bigger picture of the author's interpretation of Erik and Christine's relationship. The fine line between Love and Hate is a prominent theme of the story, reminiscent of Leroux's "love of the most exquisite kind" dialogue, and one of my favorite E/C aspects. Titania's analogies and imagery are darkly beautiful and otherworldly. Her characterizations are spot-on. Can't wait to see where she takes it!

Enjoy!


	35. The Best of Intentions

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks for all of the encouraging e-mails and reviews – they really motivate me to write, especially when I get bogged down with other commitments. It's been awhile since my last update, due to a busy schedule of traveling, family get-togethers and weddings. I also wrote a piece for a contest—something I think you will enjoy—which should be posted to FFN once the contest is over. :) But we're back on schedule again until Thanksgiving, so you shouldn't have to wait a month for the next update (blushes). _

_Again, thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement!_

**

* * *

The Best of Intentions **

**_September, 1882: The Fifth Cellar below the Opéra Populairé, Paris_**

Only the quiet, monotonous sloshing of water echoed through the dark caverns of the underground lake, where the young Comte de Chagny crouched, protected by the weak circle of light emitted by his lantern. The quiet waves…and somewhere, far away, the footfalls of Norry's two gardeners as they combed the black labyrinth in search of the body.

_**His **body_, thought Raoul. _The monster of a man who had tormented my family and me for too long. _Now, at last, he would bury him in the past, once and for all. Perhaps, even for Christine, the man would become only a distant memory—a few discordant notes in a melody that would surface now and again, when someone mentioned the name "Erik," or wore a mask. Nothing more. Just a rotting corpse buried deep beneath the stones of the _Opéra Populairé_. A dead body, guarding a secret from the rest of the world…

"A secret," the man murmured. He smoothed a hand over the metal deed box at his side, his eyes straying to the great hole before him. A good hour or more had been spent cautiously searching the floor of the fifth cellar, looking for hollow places, outlines, triggers, anything that might indicate the location of one of Erik's trapdoors. Somehow, for Christine's sake, it seemed wrong to leave Erik lying wherever they found him, unconsecrated, despite the creature's blatant rejection of all things holy. His boat was tethered on this side of the lake, which meant that he was _somewhere_ in the labyrinth. And since the ghost had not afforded them the courtesy of placing himself in his coffin before dying, and Raoul had no desire to once more venture into the Phantom's underground lair after the previous insane visit, one of the ghost's own trapdoors seemed to suit their purposes.

At last, they had found a suitable one just off the shore of the lake, and had pried it up. Upon closer inspection, the small cavern beneath seemed to serve no sinister threat, other than to trap its inhabitant beneath the stone floor, presumably until Erik came to claim them or they died of starvation. In any case, the square opening was large enough to serve as a grave.

_A fitting place for the Fraternité's oath to rest, _the young Comte mused darkly._ In the place where it all began: where my brother 'drowned'. _He quietly cursed Philippe for bringing the mess to his doorstep.

Sighing, the young Comte rocked back on his heels and glanced up the darkened corridors, searching for any sign of his two companions. Certain that they were long gone, he grabbed a rope, tied it around the box, and leaned over the opening of the grave. With the care of a mourner lowering a coffin into the ground, he placed the box into the hole and dropped the rope, bidding the cursed papers _adieu_ until he needed to reclaim them.

"Now all we need is a body to bury with it," he murmured, the corners of his mouth quirking.

And then he saw him.

Felt him, rather, at first; the prickly feeling upon the back of his neck; the suddenly heavy, tense air, warning him of the presence of another. His gaze remained riveted to the trapdoor before him, knowing that if he looked up, he would see two golden eyes staring at him, glowing like a wild animal's, ready to attack. Even now, he could feel them burning into him with barely-contained madness.

He dared not look up.

He _had_ to look up.

They were there in a shadowed corner, just to his left—two glittering circles reflecting the yellow light of his lantern, trained upon him, watching him.

Christine's "angel" was not dead after all, as the _Epoque_ had proclaimed.

The devil was very much alive.

Raoul's hands began to tremble. He hastily glanced away, pretending that he had not seen. Cursing, he cast about for some way to escape without provoking the man in the shadows.

Another trap had been laid and he had walked right into it with all the carelessness of a man who had been handed the world. How could he possibly leave the cellar alive _this_ time?

_The gardeners,_ he thought quickly. Cautiously, he backed away from the grave and strode to the corridor's entrance, the eyes following his every stride.

"Hello there!" Raoul called shakily into the darkness.

No answer.

"Messieurs?"

Still nothing. Raoul began to panic. Suppose Erik had killed them already, and had come for him last? He knew very well what happened to those who dared intrude in the Phantom's lair…

"Messieurs," he shouted again, "it is growing dark! We should return…"

At last, a faint reply. "Right away, sir!" came the voice of one of the young gardeners.

Raoul exhaled in relief. With as much calm countenance as he could muster, he made a show of gathering up their pick axes and other tools into a pile, all the while glancing down the hallway for his servants' return.

It was then he remembered it. _The oath._ A treacherous item that would mean the end for him, should it fall into the wrong hands. And now it rested in his greatest enemy's own trap door. He had to get it back—jump into the opening perhaps, and once the gardeners returned...

_And then they would know about it as well, and Erik would take the oath, and kill us all…_

Raoul's hands grew clammy with terror, his eyes wild. It was lost to him…lost, and would be recovered by Erik, he was sure of it. Now his life was once again in the palm of the Phantom's hand, and Raoul himself had placed it there.

_Why hasn't he made his move?_ the Comte's mind raced, braced for the attack that would surely put an end to his life. The eyes were still upon him, waiting. He grasped a pickaxe in his hand, tightening his grip upon the handle. Erik was there, somewhere in the shadows, ready to leap—

"Monsieur le Comte."

Raoul jumped and spun around. It was his two gardeners, returned from the labyrinth. He dropped the tool. "_Mon Dieu_," he exclaimed breathlessly, "you startled me! Never mind, it is time for us to leave."

"But Monsieur le Comte, we have not found the body—"

"And we likely shall not," Raoul interjected. "These halls are so extensive; we shall meet our own deaths if we continue to search for the man. Let him rest in peace, in his own labyrinth. That is burial enough." He hastily knelt and pushed at the heavy trap door.

Confused as to what purpose recovering the grave served, the two gardeners shrugged and followed suit, daring not to question their employer. Soon the ground was smooth again, and the heavy floor stone was slid back into place.

One of the servants stepped back to study their work, brushing a hand across his sweaty forehead and streaking it with dirt. "I can't say I'll be sad to leave this place. Dark and frightening is one thing, but this place is cursed."

The second gardener nodded. "The whole time we were searching those passages until right before you called to us, I swear upon the Virgin Mary herself that someone was following us, watching us. All the way down here! The ghosts of the communards, or the fellow we were looking for himself—"

"Which is why it is time for us to leave," Raoul nervously interrupted. "Your wives will be wondering what has happened, and Christine will be beside herself as it is."

"_Christine…"_

The voice was soft, barely a whisper that could easily be mistaken for a drafty wind in the tunnels or the sloshing of the underground lake. So quiet, it was like the last breath of a dying man, resigned, just before his chest stilled and his heart stopped.

The others had not heard it, but Raoul had.

And he knew that he would leave the fifth cellar alive.

OOOOO

Erik abruptly sat up, startled by the memory of that long-ago afternoon. Raoul de Chagny and his servants, combing the labyrinth to find and bury him; taking the time to close the heavy trap door and cover it, despite its being far from the reaches of any human, save himself…

He knew where the oath of _Fraternité_ was.

Where else could it have been so well hidden? At the time, when Erik happened upon him,it had appeared that the boy had merely been transfixed upon the trapdoor, staring into the blackness of his rival's grave and leaving his servants to do the hunting. When the factor of the missing oath was added, however.

Raoul had to have known that Erik saw him that day, near the shores of Lake Averne. He had also known that Erik spared his life yet again. And after time passed and the oath had not resurfaced, the Comte would have assumed that either Erik had not found the oath, or he had chosen not to make use of it.

_And that was why the boy had instructed Madame Giry to send Christine back to me,_ he mused. Ever so slowly, a smile spread across his oddly bearded, hideous face, twisting at the unbelievable irony of it all. When he finally escaped from this hellish place and found his wife, he would return to Paris and put an end to this nonsense once and for all.

_If the oath is even there,_ he remembered suddenly. _For if the boy is still alive, he could very well have returned to my cellar and reclaimed it by now. This whole mess could be over, Christine would be the Comtesse again, and Jean-Paul their son._

Erik shook his head to clear away the bitter thought. Christine belonged to him, _loved_ him, he was sure of it. And yet, in the three months that he had resided in the cesspit of Istanbul, amidst the desperation of a hundred men, it was easy to believe that Christine had given up on him. In fact, hadn't _he_ been the one to encourage her to find her husband in Prague, and let _him _care for her?

At the time, had he truly believed that she would abandon him, as he asked?

Somewhere beyond the walls of the prison—either in one of the bazaars or the busy docks, he wasn't sure—he heard the loud clanging of a bell, signaling the end of a workday. Soon the familiar call to prayer would sound, its exotic melody wrapping its arms around him, reminding him of the balmy days he had spent in his wife's arms, as well. The _ezan _was the only link to some marking of time, of structure. Without it, one day might as well be twenty. Without it, he might very well go insane in his hatred, as he slowly had those years under the opera house. Hate was simply an art form he had perfected with time, as he had his music and his murders.

Yes, hatred even had a face. But it was no longer that of the youthful Raoul de Chagny; rather, an older, gaunt face with twisted lips and eyes as hard as his own: Mas Quennell's.

"When will you let go of your hate?" Christine had asked him in London.

_When it ceases to sustain me_, he answered silently. And oh, how he could _hate._

He was going to kill Mas once he left Istanbul. And he would escape eventually, there was no doubt about it. The three months spent in his prison had not been wasted ruminating over how splendid his life in Jerusalem had been, or how much better life would be once he left, oh no. His time had been put to better use: learning all he could of his prison. The thickness of the walls, judging by the muffled voices he sometimes heard on the other side. Where the hallways led to, the number of floors, sets of stairs, placement of prisoners, and location of weapon storages. The patterns and tendencies of the guards—when they changed shifts, where they kept their keys, their habits, weaknesses, physical strength, everything.

The prison, Erik had discovered, was located north of Istanbul in a tower within the massive Fortress of Europe: Rumeli Hisari. More than 400 years old, the walls and towers snaked along the cypress-covered hills of the Bosphorus strait's western banks. Across the blue waters on the eastern shore towered the Rumeli's twin Fortress of Asia, the Anadolu Hisari. Together, these two structures had presided over Constantinople and the bridge between continents for nearly a half-century.

The Rumeli had served as many things since Mehmet the Conqueror had built it to capture Constantinople: garrison for the sultan's elite Janissaries, guardian over the east-west supply route, a prison for out-of-favor foreign envoys and prisoners-of-war, even a location for festivals. Officially, the prisons had been closed since 1832 and the fortress had supposedly fallen into disrepair. Some locals and few family members of prisoners and guards, however, knew that the Rumeli was a place where the Ottomans put people they wished the world to forget—spies, politicians, rebels, anarchists. The Rumeli prison, after all, no longer existed.

Neither did its prisoners.

Erik glanced at the Russian man chained next to him. The man, little more than a boy, really, had only been brought to Rumeli six days ago on a charge of espionage. Or so he assumed; the new prisoner had yet to tell him.

"Tell me, Gospadin—why do you not speak with me?" Erik asked.

The Russian paled and turned away.

"Am I so utterly hideous, that you cannot stand to look at me?" he goaded. "I assure you, sir, that your face will look as mine does before long."

The prisoner's head snapped up, his wide eyes suddenly riveted to his neighbor's visage. His jaw dropped as he studied the man's face. "Did…did they do that to you?" he whispered.

A low, bitter laugh was his response. "In a way, I suppose," Erik replied sardonically. "Oh, do not be so concerned, Gospadin. They can do nothing to you that will not heal with time. Most things heal with time, you know. With time, and revenge."

The youthful Russian said nothing, not quite sure what to make of the man.

"Do you have a wife and children, Gospadin?" Erik asked.

The prisoner nodded. "A wife of two years, and a child. A little girl named Evelina. Her name means—"

"Life," Erik said. "A fitting name for your first child."

"Yes," murmured the Russian, his voice breaking. He shook his head and turned away from his companion's gruesome face, struggling with little success to put on a brave front in the face of adversity. Erik respectfully glanced away as the man's tears fell. He really had no experience listening to other men's sorrows, and found silence to be vastly agreeable to offering comfort. Comfort, in such a place, would simply be an insult.

At last the Russian spoke. "Are they going to kill me? I have heard them talk, seen their secretive looks."

Erik nodded candidly. "I imagine so."

The Russian closed his eyes painfully, a few tears sliding from under his dark eyelashes. Head hung in defeat, he could not bring himself to raise it again. "How is it you are still alive, sir?"

Erik shrugged. "I am not entirely sure. I believe it is because I am worth more to them alive. There is a man, an enemy of Russia, that wishes to extract some sort of information from me. And as the Sultan is forever warring with Russia, this particular man is useful to them. It is entirely political, really; I am a pawn, of sorts. You see, if you are of value to them, you remain alive." He looked pointedly at the man. "Can you be of value to them in some way, to save your life?"

The Russian stared at Erik, weighing his options. He answered softly, "I would rather die with my secrets. If I betray Russia, I betray my family."

"Then you are a better man than most in here, Gospadin," Erik said quietly.

Three weeks later, the young Russian spy was hung in the inner courtyard of the prison, just after the morning _ezan_. By noon, a new prisoner was chained next to Erik's pallet—this time a former vizier.

The vizier would not look at him.

OOOOO

"Number seven-thirteen, you have a guest."

Erik glanced up at the Turkish guard nonchalantly. "The last time I had a visitor, he asked your men to beat me within an inch of my life. I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."

The guard raised his cane threateningly. "And they shall do so again, if you again forget that you are nothing but a worthless _orosbu pitchi _with a mutilated face. Your visitor will be seeing you here, as it is."

Erik smirked. "I am hardly presentable to see anyone, sir." He held up a tattered corner of his _abaya_, then dropped it.

The guard shrugged and turned to leave. "Very well then. I shall just tell the priest that you do not want visitors."

"Wait, _Effendi._"

The Turk paused and turned back, eyebrows raised.

"A priest?" Erik asked incredulously.

"An older man; says he is a friend of yours, has news of your family. I will tell him to leave."

Erik's breath caught in his dry throat. He swallowed, gripping his chains anxiously. "Send him in."

The man who strode into the prison chamber was the last man on earth Erik had expected to see in the black and white of a priest. The familiar person had discarded his astrakhan cap and robe, and was now dressed head to toe in the vestments of a Franciscan, his holy bible gripped tightly by his nervous fingers.

Erik's eyebrows quirked in amusement.

"A Persian priest!" he exclaimed wryly. "This is not something we in Istanbul are treated to everyday." He held out his hand in greeting. "You need not look so concerned, Father; none of the guards present speak French."

One of the gendarmes stepped forward, pointing his cane at the men in warning. "Speak in Turkish, _ayip_."

Erik scowled, then continued the conversation in crystal-clear, acerbic Turkish, his words over-pronounced and just loud enough for the guard to hear. "Tell me, how on earth did you convince my Turkish companions that you truly are a man of the cloth? They are most suspicious creatures."

The Persian smiled. "I began to explain the intricacies of the Catholic Persian Rite and the _Missale Chaldaicum_. They waved me through the gate in less than a minute." He studied the emaciated man before him. "You look horrible, Erik."

"I have never been a handsome man, _du stæm_." His hand went to his face, unconsciously covering his deformities.

"That is not what I meant. And you need not cover your face; I know very well what it looks like."

Erik lowered his hand. "Let us say that we are not as formal at the Rumeli Hisari as in Paris. Fine clothing, food, and masks do not seem to be as vital here."

Nadir scrutinized his friend's filthy, beaten condition, his jade eyes resting upon the man's bandaged right hand. "How did that happen?" he asked quietly. "What did they do?"

"An envoy, doing a bit of eavesdropping in addition to his official duties—little more than a boy—was imprisoned here. He had a wife and child." He sighed wearily. "They came to take him to the gallows, and I interfered. The Turkish guards do not take kindly to interference."

"How noble of you," Nadir muttered. "Lashing out against the Ottomans when it would make absolutely no difference in the boy's fate; now you have a broken hand, which is of no use to anyone." The Persian narrowed his eyes. "Foolish nobility seems to be your credo, of late. What you did for us in Jerusalem—"

Erik grimaced. "I truly hope that you are not about to thank me. I am in no mood to humor such behavior. How is Christine?"

Nadir glanced at the floor. "She is well, I suppose. I really do not know."

The prisoner's golden eyes flared. "What the devil does that mean?" he snapped. "How could you not _know_?"

"We have not heard a word of them since that day in Jerusalem—"

Erik threw his hands up in the air, chains rattling. "Have you not even _tried_ to look for them? They are keeping me alive here for a reason, Nadir; Mas Quennell doesn't know where she is, and that is the _only_ reason I am here and not on a pile of corpses. He is still _looking_ for her, don't you see? Good God, I saved your worthless life that day, and you did not even _think_ to help my wife—"

"—Yes, your wife," the Persian quickly interrupted. "Papillon is with us in Istanbul—Father Jakob and I—you remember the other cleric from Jerusalem? She wishes to visit you—"

Whatever retorts Erik had prepared died on his lips. He studied his friend curiously, trying to make sense of his odd words. Papi? His wife? Why would…

And then he realized exactly what the Persian intended to do. Prisoners were allowed a monthly visit with their wives. Usually, they were unchained from the wall for such a visit.

However, often times, certain unpleasant things befell a woman who visited her husband—especially one who had been shamed because her husband was in prison. A silent agreement of sorts, a risk each woman took but no one ever spoke of. All knew it happened, however; the consequential devastation of the imprisoned was evidence enough.

It was too much of a risk.

"No."

Nadir cleared his throat. "But Erik—"

"—I said no, you stupid man! I do not want her to see me, nor do I wish her to entertain the thought, do you understand? Tell her to go home to France."

"I have tried, _du stæm_, but she is very much of a mind to see you. Nothing I can say will persuade her otherwise. Perhaps _no harm_ will come to her," the Persian said emphatically.

Erik stared at the man before him, trying to read his thoughts. "Nadir, let me be frank," he said quickly in French, aware of the guard hovering above him. "When a woman visits the Rumeli, she is searched for weapons at the gate, then led to her husband. She and the prisoner are taken to a small room, always accompanied by two guards."

"Speak Turkish!" the gendarme threatened, his fingers tightening over his cane.

Erik rushed on, ignoring him. "Many times, after the prisoner is returned to his chains, the guards will have a bit of fun. Do you understand what I am saying, Nadir? Wives of prisoners are not respected. They are often sold, or worse. I will find a way out, myself—"

The cane came down across the man's shoulders with a blow so forceful, it momentarily numbed every single nerve along his spine, before white pain ripped through his back. He put a hand to the ground to steady himself, fighting to pull air back into his lungs.

The Persian dropped to his knees next to his friend and clasped his shoulder, helping to steady him. Leaning forward, he hastily whispered into Erik's ear.

"She will come in three days' time. Be prepared, rest, and stay as healthy as possible. No more interferences with the guards." Nadir's eyes met his, pleading. "Make sure that she is not harmed, my friend."

Erik nodded, his lips turning white, jaw clenched. "I will."

The Persian released the man's shoulders and rose, smoothing a hand over his black robe. He glared at the guard still brandishing the cane, his cold jade eyes and authoritative manner every bit that of the Mazenderan daroga from so long ago. Hissing through his teeth, he strode past the guard and down the filthy, dank halls of the Rumeli Hisari and into the fresh open air of Istanbul.

The breeze off of the Bosphorus was the only relief from the pounding sun afforded to the dock-goers that hot August afternoon. Just beyond the gates of the fortress stretched the blue waters of the strait, its merchant ships sailing lazily up and down it between the Black and Marmara Seas, laden with silks and spices of the Middle East.

Nadir strolled down the shore, allowing the fresh air to cool his boiling blood, scanning the multitudes of people for a familiar blonde head. He saw her standing next to the ferry dock with the old Father Jakob, dressed in her simple gray dress, hair tucked and pinned under a plain straw hat with a wide brim that shaded her brown eyes. Calling out to her, she turned and saw him, a grin spreading across her lovely face. She held out her small, gloved hand and for a moment, Nadir thought she would tangle her fingers with his. His hand was quickly relinquished, however, and she gestured to the small boat at the dock.

"You are just in time, M. Khan," Papi said. "The ferry is leaving shortly, and another will not be available for an entire hour. Shall we?"

"Then I am glad I was not late," the Persian replied quietly, once more claiming her hand to help her aboard the boat.

The maid nodded her thanks and strode to the secluded area of the ferry. Nadir and Father Jakob followed, each placing liras in the attendant's box and settling into a seat next to her.

Three months in each other's company had forged a friendship between the Persian, the Frenchwoman, and the Franciscan priest—an event that would have been as unlikely under any other circumstance as the sky shedding snow upon the scorched summer lands of Turkey. And yet fate sometimes has a way of bringing the unlikeliest of creatures together.

For weeks they had scoured prison after Ottoman prison, searching for their captive friend. Just as their searching began to seem in vain, a few well-placed liras in the hands of a gendarme purchased a story of a secluded prison hidden within the ancient walls of the Rumeli Hisari, one which very few knew about, and even fewer returned from—prisoners, or their family. A few more liras, and they were given the story of the jailed assassin from Persia who had a face so gruesome, the prison guards dared not touch it with their canes and risk marring such perfect hideousness.

"Oh!" Papi exclaimed, breaking into the Persian's thoughts. "Here is your knap sack, safe and sound." She handed the brown leather bag to the daroga, her fingers brushing his as he took it.

"Thank you," he said softly, his eyes not leaving her blushing face. The bag contained his neatly-rolled _yelek _vest and fez, discarded for his priestly garments. He shrugged out of the black robes and slipped the vest over his cotton kaftan, enjoying the sudden rush of cool air that the lighter garments afforded him.

"May my father and grandfather forgive me for wearing Turkish garbage," he muttered as he placed the red cap on his head and wound a white turban scarf around it. Tucking the vestments back into the bag, he leaned back and watched the ornate palaces as the boat gradually moved south along the shoreline.

"Well?" asked Father Jakob, his expression one of pure hope. "Was it this one? Was it _him_?"

A smile slowly spread across Nadir's face. "It was him—as stubborn and arrogant as ever."

"Praise God!" breathed the priest, his eyes turned to heaven.

The Persian cleared his throat. "I would not be so quick as to thank God yet, Father. This prison is not like the others."

He told his companions of what he had seen—Erik, beaten and chained to a wall, lined by prisoner after filthy prisoner. How there was a guard in nearly every hallway, each carrying a gun and a wooden cane. The stench, the darkness, the rats—

"There are no large open rooms or obvious routes," he continued. "It is a maze; a dark, ancient labyrinth of hallways and staircases winding through the towers and barracks of the old fortress. It will be nearly impossible for Mlle. Nitot to find her way through the passages, once Erik is free."

"I can do it!" Papi cried, her brown eyes shining with excitement. "Please, let me try to help. If M. Reinard has his lasso, then we could make it."

"Papillon, who knows whether he will even be able to use it or not! His hand is broken, and he is chained to a wall. If they do not release him when you visit—"

"Please, Nadir—I have to try." The woman grasped his hands. "This is why I am here, why I came with you—to help!"

"It appears to be the only way, Monsieur," added Father Jakob. "We already know that the guards will not unchain him for you, and most likely not for me. For his 'wife', however…"

Nadir shook his head, placing his hands over Papi's. "I beg of you, Mademoiselle—explain to me why this is so important, you would risk your life so carelessly? Erik does not wish you to, by the way. And after speaking with him and seeing the prison, I am inclined to strongly agree with him."

"Perhaps if you accompanied her, you would have a better chance of escape," offered the old priest. "You only have to make it out of the fortress, and the boat will be waiting in the Bosphorus to take us to the Black Sea. It isn't very far. You could somehow hide a pistol under your robes, or a dagger."

"Possibly," Nadir murmured reflectively. "I noticed that they did not look at my ankles at the gate, because of the sandals. A knife could be strapped there. However, if they _did_ search my ankles, we would be finished."

The conversation parried back and forth in such a manner the entire six miles back to central Istanbul, then even further as they made their way past the Topkapi to the Bazaar Quarter. Weaving their way through the vibrant Grand bazaar, they were so engrossed in their enigmatic preparations that none of them noticed two Turks, a gruff older man and a younger, rather petite, fair-faced companion wandering in the opposite direction towards a dingy _meyhane_.

OOOOO

Christine squinted into the dimly lit tavern, momentarily blinded by the drastic shift from daylight to darkness. As her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, however, she began to make out square tables and chairs scattered across a brown tiled floor, some occupied by patrons puffing bubble pipes and sipping raki. The odor of cooking fish mingled with the fragrant narghile and created a most unpleasant smell. She thanked the heavens that after four months with child, her bouts of nausea had at last seen fit to depart.

Tucking a few loose curls under her turban, Christine put her hand to her nose and pressed forward, pointing to an unoccupied table in the far corner of the small _meyhane_.

She and Norry settled into their chairs, positioning them so they could watch for the arrival of Zeki, the eleven-year-old boy she had hired to serve as a translator of sorts. The child was remarkable—she had stumbled upon him in the Egyptian spice bazaar when he tried to sell her a jar of pistachios, rattling off one language after the other until he determined that she spoke French. After buying his jar of pistachios and chatting over a lunch of lukewarm soup, she discovered that a good number of Constantinople's street urchins spoke many languages, learned by carefully observing foreign tradesmen, tourists, and missionaries in the many bazaars. Most of them would never receive any sort of formal schooling, but they could speak to Turkey's wealthy visitors—and _that_ was what earned a decent living.

"I don't know if that little scamp will be showing his face today, Madame," Norry said. "He may very well have taken your purse of liras and ran off to make mischief with them. Those coins are as good as gone."

She shook her head, smiling. "He will be here, Norry, and with this gendarme of his. As long as there is a promise of more liras, he will come."

Over the past week, Zeki had proven to be of tremendous value, worth much more than a purse of liras. For more than a month, Christine and Norry had bumbled about Istanbul like two lost sheep amongst a pack of wolves, fruitlessly searching prisons for Erik and spending a small fortune for secrets that proved to be nothing more than fable. Within three days of hiring the boy, however, not only did they have a loyal guide (as long as a coin was placed upon his palm), they had a link to the underbelly of Istanbul and all of its dirty dealings.

And now, after three months, she finally had hope of finding her husband.

"There," exclaimed Norry, nodding to the doorway. Sure enough, in strode their jaunty eleven-year-old in a rumpled kaftan, fez askew, followed by an equally rumpled and considerably more grizzled man. Zeki spotted them in the corner and waved, pointing them out to his companion. The older man studied the foreigners for moment, then frowned, his bushy brows knitting together in annoyance. He barked something at the boy and lightly pushed him towards the waiting party. Zeki shrugged and shuffled over to his employer.

"Hello, Zeki _Bey_," Christine said.

The boy's chest puffed with pride, quite pleased with the formal address. "_Effendi_," he nodded to each of his companions.

Christine gestured to the man lurking in the doorway. "Will your friend not join us? I should very much like to speak with him. And Norry has already requested a bottle of raki."

The boy's eyes glistened at the thought of imbibing in drink with a pretty French lady—albeit, the oddest lady he had ever met—but his happy demeanor abruptly clouded. "He will not meet with you, Christine _Hanim_. I told him that you are very nice, but…"

He glanced back at the man, shrugging his shoulders.

"That is foolishness," Norry growled. "Why not? Thinks he is too good to sit at a table with a couple of foreigners?"

'No," said the boy measuredly. "He says that he will not meet with a woman who dresses as a man. It is insulting."

Christine glanced down at her male attire—billowed pants, cotton kaftan just baggy enough to hide her slightly rounded midsection, woven vest. Yes, it was offensive in this particular culture…if passers-by actually noticed that she was not a man. And most had not. Rather, dressing as a man had afforded her passage into a variety of places she would not normally be admitted to, as well as the ability to exercise a freedom she would not be able to as a woman—French or not.

She smiled sweetly. "Perhaps all your friend needs is a bit of persuading," she said gently, and nonchalantly plopped a purse-full of liras onto the table. Across the room, the man's eyes widened considerably and he sauntered over to the dark corner, suddenly cured of his averseness to ill-bred women. _Men's clothing isn't the only key to getting what you want,_ Christine mused. _Money seems to work just as well._ She silently blessed Raoul and Erik for bestowing small fortunes upon her.

The man bowed to Christine and Norry. "_Effendi,_" he grinned, his smile crafty and catlike. He spoke to the boy, who nodded along, repeating his words.

"My friend says that he is glad to be of service to you, and 'the Sultan's gendarme is yours to command.'"

Christine gestured for the man to sit, her own artful smile still plastered upon her lips. "Zeki has implied that you have information which may be of use to me. The more you can tell, the more I shall thank you." She absently tapped the purse under her hand while Zeki translated her words. "If your story does not ring true, you shall receive nothing from me," she added for good measure.

The man's eye twitched slightly. He folded his hands and leaned forward on the table, fingers barely inches from hers, his words low.

"He promises you, _Hanim_," Zeki repeated, "he will be nothing but truthful."

Norry growled low and eyed the man in warning, quietly flashed the hilt of a knife at his belt. The Turk held up his hands and slid back in his chair with all the ease in the world.

Christine cleared her throat and continued, ignoring the interlude. "I am looking for a man—a French man, imprisoned somewhere within Istanbul or the outskirts."

"A…skirt?" Zeki questioned, confused.

"Outskirts – outside the city."

The boy giggled. "My friend says that there could be many such men imprisoned in Istanbul."

"Yes," she continued, "but this one is different. He was in service to Persia twenty years ago—a political assassin. And he wears a mask."

"Why does he wear a mask?" the child asked curiously.

Christine stared at him, unsure of how to reply. "His face…"

The man clapped his hands, startling the others at the table. "_Ayip_!" he exclaimed, his words to the boy a jumble of Turkish.

"The monster in Rumeli Hisari…the man with half a face," the boy quickly translated. "He was called the Lover of Trapdoors. Yes, he has have heard of him."

Christine grabbed Norry's arm in excitement. "Rumeli Hisari—the fortress on the Bosphorus? I didn't know that there was a prison there. Are you sure? He is alive?"

The gendarme nodded and continued, catching the woman's exhilaration.

"Most certainly," Zeki repeated. "The Ottomans keep its location a secret because of its important prisoners. He is there, though. My friend has been told that your Frenchman has given the guards a lot of trouble."

"It sounds like him," Norry added. "I would think it _weren't_ him, if he wasn't stirring up some sort of commotion. That fellow lives and breathes strife."

Christine scowled at the caretaker and pressed on. "What else can you tell me of the Rumeli, sir?" She pulled the drawstring of the purse and removed several liras, placing them on the table.

The man's eyes shone greedily. He reached across the table and covered the purse, as well as her hand, with his great palm.

"Anything you would like to know, _Hanim," _said the boy, his own eyes bright with hunger for the coins.

She grinned sardonically and slid her fingers from the man's, along with the coins. "Tell me all you know. In fact, if you can take me there tomorrow morning, this entire bag shall be yours."

"The entire bag?" Norry shook his head, mumbling about money and foolishness.

Zeki leapt from the table and clapped his hands, shrieking with delight, causing several of the _meyhane _patrons to pause in their narghile puffing and turn to see who was creating such a stir.

"Done!" exclaimed the Turk, slapping the table. "Tomorrow morning, right after the morning _ezan_, I shall take you and your friend to Rumeli Hisari and offer my protection," he replied in perfect French. "Oh, and be sure to dress as a woman tomorrow. The guards will not be kind should they discover you are pretending to be a man."

Norry and Christine stared at the man, mouths slack, utterly taken aback. The caretaker growled and loosed a string of oaths in French, daring the man to understand them.

Christine exhaled, her eyes falling shut in utter relief, and ignored whatever took place between Norry and her Turkish guides. Nothing mattered at all, except for her newfound hope.

Erik was alive! He was only six miles away. And tomorrow, she would see her beloved Angel again.

* * *

**A/N**: Posting a map of Istanbul on my Web site, as I write. 

**Story Recommendation: _Das Phantom von Deutschland,_ by SparklyScorpion**

_Das Phantom von Deustchland_ is set in Nazi-occupied Paris, and is a loose retelling of POTO with some twists and turns here to make the story fresh. Christine is a resistance worker, Raoul is a downed British fighter pilot, and Erik is a Nazi infiltrator determined to destroy the movement.

First of all, kudos to SparklyScorpion for taking on such a challenging storyline. Not many authors can write an alternate reality story based on Phantom, set it in this particularly sensitive time period, and have it come out as strong as _Das Phantom von Deustchland_ does. The author has done a lot of research, and it really makes the story. Erik can be very dark and frightening, and then he can be heartbreaking. Raoul and Christine's characterizations are also well done.

In making Erik a Nazi, the author has chosen a difficult path; she manages to make Erik a hated figure, and at the same time is able to stir a sympathy for him without using romantic clichés or cheap plot devices. He is not a nice person, yet the reader is drawn to him in very much the same way we are drawn to Leroux's Erik. She does not in any way condone the Nazi movement or Erik's actions, and has made it very clear; rather, she simply tells a very human story that seems to get better with each chapter! Enjoy :)


	36. A Nightingale Sings

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement!_

**

* * *

A Nightingale Sings **

"Rumeli Hisari," said Fahri. Their Turkish companion nodded to the ancient walls towering above them. "Home of the Sultan's ancestors, bane of Christendom.

"Bane to most anybody, save the Turks, I would think," murmured Norry. He glanced at his mistress. "Madame, somethin's not right about this—I can feel it. This place is full of evil."

"Of course it is, it's a prison," Christine said absently. She gazed up at the crumbling stone fortress, the guardless battlements and portcullis filling her with a chilling unease. It was difficult to believe that an actual prison existed somewhere within the structure which, for all purposes, appeared to be entirely abandoned. If not for Fahri and Zeki's steadfast assurances that the fortress was indeed very much in use, she would have laughed at the idea of anything at all living within such a decrepit building. And yet she found her feet moving forward upon the winding graveled path, her fingers clenching and unclenching the cotton folds of her skirt with all the nervousness she felt on that long-ago afternoon, when she first descended into the depths of Jerusalem to reclaim her fallen angel.

It was not until they reached the top of the hill that she realized there were indeed two Turkish gendarmes standing guard at the Hisari entrance, the navy of their dark uniforms fading into the fortress' shadow, augmented by the strong summer sun. Christine put a hand to her forehead to see them better. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped forward.

"I am here to see my husband," she exclaimed with a confidence she certainly did not feel. "I have been informed that he is a prisoner here. A Frenchman, with black hair and a—and a mask. Please."

The gendarmes stared at her, and she couldn't tell if they had not understood or simply pretended not to. She opened her mouth to repeat her words, but Fahri placed a warning hand upon her shoulder and pulled her back, speaking to the guards in a flood of incoherent Turkish. He nodded his head as he and the guards conversed, gesturing to the woman at his side. One of the guards leered at her and Norry, his black eyes glancing over her person, coming to rest upon the small purse she clutched to her chest. She shifted uncomfortably and gazed beyond the guards' faces, into the darkness behind the portcullis. Somewhere in the shadows, in the darkness, was Erik.

Fahri grasped her elbow. "I have told them you are a French noblewoman, and will be missed by important people if anything should happen to you. The gendarmes have assured you safe passage if you pay them the contents of your purse. I suggest you do so, _Hanim_."

Christine's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Tell them I will pay half now, and half when I return." Pulling open the pouch's drawstrings with trembling fingers, she poured half of the liras into her palm, their gold reliefs all but winking at the swinish guards. She divided the coins between the two and walked towards the portcullis, hesitating when it did not open.

"Stop!" commanded the first guard. The man enthusiastically ran his hands up and down Christine's bustled and bodiced form, searching for concealed weapons. _A little too enthusiastically_, she thought angrily, longing for her Turkish male's costume and watching as they moved on to Fahri and Norry with much less dedication. If only Fahri had not insisted she come dressed as the Frenchwoman she was. She could see his point of view—women, in his country, garnered little respect. However, a woman dressed as a man would cause much more of a stir at the prison than she could afford. So pretense was left behind at the inn, and instead she had donned a loosely laced market dress and hat that had been at the height of Paris fashion four years ago. She prayed and at the same time feared Erik might notice the somewhat conspicuous curving of her form beneath the folds of peach fabric.

"What do you mean, I'm not allowed?" barked Norry.

Christine's attention was immediately drawn to the reddening face of her caretaker.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here an' twiddle my thumbs while Mme. Reinard goes into this dung heap with you Turks!"

"Sir," Fahri said in exasperation, "only two people are allowed to enter! I can ensure her safety much better than you can—"

"You an' your gendarmes are taking her for every lira she's got—"

"—if you want something in this country, it comes with a price!"

Christine sighed impatiently and placed a calming hand on Norry's arm. "M. Nitot, I truly appreciate the sentiment, but if you would be so kind as to wait here, I will return shortly. At the first sign of trouble, I promise to scream as loudly and hysterically as possible, kicking and biting with such fervor that they will throw me out of the fortress before I inflict too much damage on their persons."

Norry held up his hands in resignation, shaking his head and huffing indignantly, but ultimately said no more upon the matter and stepped aside, his worried old eyes following his two companions until they vanished into the darkness of the Rumeli Hisari.

Although Christine had known the fortress prison would not be a garden party, nothing had prepared her for the overwhelming despair and depravity she found within its walls. Stark rooms lit only by the orange flicker of torchlight revealed prisoner after nameless prisoner, chained to the stones and filthy in their scraps of clothing and matted hair. Many of them cried out to her with moans so inhuman, it was all she could do to keep from stopping her ears with her fingers. And the smell. She was grateful for the bit of scent she had dabbed at her wrists and handkerchief; at the time, she had thought only to create a pleasant appearance for Erik, but now, as the putrid smell of death filled her head, a handkerchief touched to her nose was all that kept her sane.

So it wasn't until she heard the Turkish guards announce her presence and the quiet, melodious sound of Erik's voice acquiesce to their command, that she truly believed her immaculate husband could possibly reside in such a place. Yet there he was, just as the rest of the prisoners, squalid and shackled, bruised and bandaged, her proud angel.

And maskless.

An unfathomable look passed over Erik's twisted features. Was it shock, perhaps? Fear? For a moment, his golden eyes burned with whatever it was, before coolly narrowing to glance over her person. Whoever he had been expecting, it had not been her.

"_Allah, Allah! Beterin beteri var,_" Fahri murmured, his eyes fixed in awed horror upon the prisoner's face. "You are married to this person?"

The nervous woman unconsciously put a hand over her growing midsection, tears pricking her eyes, threatening to spill over. She watched as the man slowly unfolded his long frame from his mat and rose, his burning eyes never leaving her face; she waited, frozen in place, for some sign—a crook of the finger, a ghost of a smile, anything at all—to tell her she was still wanted by him. Yet for all of her bravery, she could only stare at him as he stared at her. Once more, she was the quaking chorus girl who gazed in awe at the form of her teacher beyond a mirror, who, until then, had been nothing more that a ghost; nothing tangible, nothing real.

She needed to feel him…to know that he was real.

Overwhelmed, she gasped and launched herself at the man, flinging her arms about his neck and burying her face in his bony shoulder. Choking back her sobs, she lost herself in the sensation of his painfully thin body, cold against her own warm frame. His hands hovered just over her and rested upon her waist for a moment, as if deciding whether to pull her small form against him or fling her aside. Then slowly, deliberately, they grasped her shoulders and pushed her away from him. Shocked, Christine glanced up just in time to see him wince in pain as he clutched his bandaged hand, before once more dropping his cold, stoic mask into place.

"Why are you here?" he murmured.

"Erik. Why would I _not_ be here?" She reached out for his face, her palms pressing his cheeks. Before she knew what had happened, his left hand whipped her fingers away and grasped her tiny wrists, cruelly tightening until she gasped in pain. And then he pushed her from him again, irons rattling, eyes mocking her as she stumbled into Fahri. Sneering, he turned to the guards and uttered something Turkish, pointing to the baffled woman.

"What did he say, Fahri?" Christine quickly asked the man as she found her footing.

He looked at her strangely. "He says that you are not his wife, and you should be taken out of the Hisari immediately."

"But…but that isn't true! Erik—" she stammered to her husband, pleading—"tell them that isn't true!"

"I haven't the slightest idea why you are here."

"Do not lie!"

"That, Madame, is the truth!"

One of the gendarmes stepped forward and pointed his cane at Erik in warning, muttering something incoherent. Christine glanced at Fahri for explanation.

"He says you must speak in Turkish, _Hanim_."

The woman's lower lip began to tremble and she caught it between her teeth, shaking her head. "I cannot speak Turkish, though. Fahri, tell them I will pay!" She held up her small purse and pulled out a fistful of coins, holding them out to the guards. The men began to laugh and pocketed the liras, pointing to the distraught woman as they spoke. She looked again to Fahri.

"They said you may continue with your, ah, conversation."

She nodded. "Erik, please, what has happened?"

Erik sighed. "Madame," he said calmly, steadily, "I cannot pretend to understand why you would believe I am married to you, a man as hideous as I. I can assure you, however, that I have no intention of claiming you are my wife when indeed, you are not."

"Why are you saying such horrible things?" Christine cried.

"I have no wish to discuss this further. Go away."

She shook her head, tears now spilling forth unheeded as she searched for some explanation to Erik's denial of her. Anger…betrayal…maybe resentment? Grasping, looking for something to explain…

"Erik!" she exclaimed suddenly. "About Raoul—if that is what has caused this change of heart, please believe me—I went to Prague, and—"

"Enough!" Erik bellowed, his voice echoing through the prison. All turned in stunned silence towards the fuming man; only the choked sobbing of the strange woman offered any evidence that time had not simply stopped. And then the man spoke, his words low and acerbic. "Tell me, Madame, have you enjoyed your stay in this exciting city?"

Christine frowned in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"I asked if you like Constantinople. Surely you have seen some of its wonders! Why, the Rumeli Hisari is of little interest, when compared to the Topkapi Palace or the Hagia Sophia." He took a step forward, his eyes gleaming menacingly. "And the markets! Do you like to shop, Madame?"

"Ye-yes, or rather, I do not know. Erik, please, I must tell you—"

"—The bazaars are a wonder, full of life and color. Where are you staying?"

"We are at the _Yesil Ev_, just across from the Blue Mosque," Christine murmured, now certain that her husband was quite mad.

"We?"

"Norris Nitot."

"Ah, that is good! No doubt you have seen much of the city from your inn room. Well then, _adieu_."

"Please—"

"Goodbye, Madame!" Crossing his arms across his chest, he turned his back to her in mute dismissal.

"Goodbye," she murmured. It was useless; to fight him in such a state was madness in and of itself. This was not the man who had loved her. Not the man who had sacrificed happiness to save her life, who had struggled to overcome his failures, all for her. She bowed her head sadly and turned to go. And then a thought struck her—a memory, lacquered with time but real, nonetheless—of a spring morning, the golden light of Jerusalem spilling into a sparse room…

_Was_ this the same man who had saved her, as she him?

"Erik," she said quietly, "I once told you something: For hope to exist, something good must come from the bad." Christine gazed over her shoulder at her husband, his back stiffening at her words. "You replied that hope is a blessed thing, for those who have it. For those who do not, life is a curse." For an endless minute, the unspoken question hung in the air between them, a thick fog that obscured all it encompassed, blurring understanding and twisting perception. And then his quiet response, brushing away the fog with a deft hand…

"I have it yet, Madame Reinard."

She smiled gently and curtsied, peace sweeping through her heart. "I shall enjoy the bazaars as you suggest, Monsieur." And without another word, she swiftly took her leave.

ooOOoo

"Now—if we reach the gate and the guards discover the knife at my ankle, what are you to do?"

"Run for the nearest cypress grove, then move through the cover of the trees to where Father Jakob is waiting with the horses."

"And?"

"I am not to wait for you. Instead, we are to begin planning how to help both M. Reinard _and_ you escape." The woman grinned.

Nadir snorted. "I would rather see you planning your return trip to France than waiting in Istanbul while I languish away in prison."

"Never! I have sworn to protect you, oh Great One, and I shall do so at all costs." The woman laughed softly. "Really M. Khan, we have been over the plan again and again. Let us simply relax and enjoy our last evening in Constantinople."

Nadir Khan was inclined to do just as Papillon Nitot requested. The quiet outdoor tables upon the inn's blue tiled courtyard were empty, save for the two of them, which allowed them to enjoy the perfumed evening in peace. The night was warm and serene; the lights of the city mingling gently with the lights of the sky cast a silvery aura over his companion, and Nadir felt as if he would burst for the beauty around him. He leaned back in his chair and puffed his fragrant narghile, careful to not be caught staring.

Papi breathed deeply, then exhaled. "It was clear nights like this that we servants at the Chagny estate enjoyed the most. So lovely, so alive…almost pagan in its intensity. We would all go out to the edge of my father's gardens with lanterns, near the little stream that passed through the grounds, take off our shoes, and wade through the water. Sometimes we would sing—badly, of course, but no one minded—and Jérôme would accompany us …" A shadow crossed the woman's face.

"Who is Jérôme?" Nadir asked quietly, a trace of jealousy tingeing his voice.

"Perri's father. He was going to marry me, but…" the woman sighed. "Apparently the idea of being a papa was not as agreeable as simply having a young, foolish girl to be in love with. And oh, how foolish I was! If it had not been for Papa and Raoul, I would now be living in squalor on the streets of Paris."

The Persian nodded thoughtfully. "I think you would have found your way into better fortunes than that, Mademoiselle. You are not a foolish woman. Rash perhaps, and stubborn; but not foolish."

"Thank you."

"I am sincere in my words." Nadir held her eyes for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Have you ever thought of marrying?"

Papi shook her head. "Not when Perri was alive. Perhaps I toyed with the idea once or twice, but I did not see it as a necessity. After all, we had Papa and Raoul; I think I was a bit in love with Raoul de Chagny…" She laughed as the Persian's eyebrows shot up. "Very well, I was _quite_ a bit in love with Raoul de Chagny."

"Was?"

A blush crept up the pale neck of the woman and she cast her eyes upon the ground, daring not to reply.

"If you won't answer me, will you at least sing one of the songs you profess to sing so badly?" asked the Persian.

"If you wish." She peered thoughtfully across the courtyard, then began an old French melody, so soft that he could hardly hear her. As she sang on, however, her voice grew stronger, surer; though not perfect or even pretty, her words were heartfelt.

_"…Come, love, through the woods of spring,  
Come walk with me;  
Listen, the sweet birds jargoning  
From tree to tree.  
List and listen, over all,  
Nightingale most musical  
That ceases never;  
Grief begone, and let us be  
For a space, as glad as he;  
Time's flitting ever..."_

The Turkish courtyard fell silent as the song ended. Nadir gazed at the woman, smiling at her sad, wistful expression. He reached across the table and placed a hand upon hers. "You will be home soon, Mademoiselle."

She did not pull her hand away.

ooOOoo

_Merde, where is that damned Persian? _

Erik wadded up the bit of dirty bandage that had unraveled from his hand and chucked it into the corner. It had been three days since Nadir had promised to return and free him; two, since Christine had caught him unawares and nearly caused him a convulsive fit. And still, he had had no promised visit, no sign that anyone was coming to assist him. If, by tomorrow, no one came, he would just have to break out of the fortress himself.

Seeing Christine again, holding Christine again, smelling Christine again—her scent still faintly lingered upon him—had nearly driven him to desperate measures. Every time a smug Turkish guard passed on his rounds, Erik clutched his chains and gritted his teeth, barely restraining his hand from whipping his irons about the man and snapping his neck. What would be the point? He would be shot dead before he even had a chance to unlock his shackles.

But oh, the thought of Christine, just beyond those blackened stones…

He leapt up from his pallet and paced back and forth, as much as his chains would allow. Waiting was driving him mad. Madder than he already was. Madder than the entire scheme they were about to embark upon. And now there was the issue of finding Christine in the city. Erik hissed in annoyance—how the devil could he possibly hope to collect her from that inn without those damned nuisances of gendarmes tracking him down?

Christine. His well-meaning, foolish girl. How his heart pounded with love for her. Had he not told her to go to Prague? And she had; however, he hadn't told her to _stay_ in Prague, never thinking it possible that she might care enough to try to track him down after his arrest in Jerusalem. Raoul would have been there to pick up the pieces after her messy mistake of a marriage, after all. She also had Jean-Paul to think about. And just maybe…even another child?

It had been hard to tell, and he dared not ask for fear of finding out that there _was_ or _wasn't_, or it _might_ or _mightn't _be his; but underneath Christine's horrid peach confection of a dress, he had been sure, when he held her…

Erik pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. He had to get out of this dark place and into the light—_her_ light. He had to know for certain if there was a child, so he could decide what in God's name to do. The next guard who entered the room would be a dead shortly, and he would try to make for the roof—

"_Ayip_!"

Erik looked up at the fat, foolhardy gendarme, and a sneer spread across his face. Not even a readied rifle; this would be an easy kill. "Yes?"

"Your wife is here to visit you. A yellow-haired thing this time, just as pretty as the first," the guard smirked, "although not as well-endowed—with liras." The man cackled at his jest, his belly shaking.

"I am beginning to believe that one need only _buy_ their way out of the Rumeli Hisari, _Effendi_," Erik quipped, his grip upon the chains loosening. "Really, your love for gold is most frightening at times."

"A man takes what he can, when he is in a place to do so."

"How very true." Erik held the man's gaze, then waved his hand. "Please show my wife in."

The gendarme chuckled again and motioned for the visitors to enter.

It wasn't until his "wife", her priestly companion, and two more guards were well into the room that Erik realized his mistake. He had been entirely caught up in assessing the extra gendarmes—the one to the right's relaxed stance, the ring of keys dangling from the second's sash, the fat one's rifle slung over his shoulder—that he failed to notice the most obvious obstacle:

Papillon Nitot had never before seen his face.

For the first time in his calamitous life, it had not even occurred to him to cover his face; he had lived without the aid of a mask for three months in the presence of prisoners whose own wounds were nearly as frightful as his. So when the woman began to tremble from head to toe, her face becoming as sallow as a specter's, it actually took him a moment to realize the cause of her distress. He watched as her eyes filled with horror; she blinked once, twice, then took a step back, and another, as if she would turn on her heels and fly from the room. The daroga caught her arm. "No," she murmured, trying to shake away his hands, but he held her firmly in place, whispering some word of comfort into her ears.

Erik thought quickly. "My dear wife, does the sight of your poor beaten husband trouble you?" he asked, his gold eyes searching hers.

The woman shook her head, struggling to break away from his powerful hold. "Sir…did they do this to you? Your—your face…"

"Surely I cannot look more loathsome than I did before!"

"I…I am so sorry. I cannot do this!" Papi looked back to the Persian, mutely asking for some sort of assistance.

"Will you not embrace your husband?" Nadir quietly asked and nodded to the man in irons.

The maid closed her eyes and swallowed, slowly pulling away from the safety of the daroga's arm. She moved towards Erik, one foot in front of the other as if each step required the greatest deliberation, a prayer upon her lips, until at last she stood before him.

"I see that time has softened your memory of me," Erik snapped, then grabbed her rigid arm before she could bolt. Lowering his face towards hers, he dared a glance over her shoulder at the attentive guards, now alert to the slightest of movements. The gendarme carrying the rifle stepped closer to listen. Cursing under his breath, he placed a light kiss upon the maid's cheek, holding her elbows in iron grips so she would not flinch.

"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked lowly, his breath warm upon her ear.

"Because you came back for us," was her simple reply.

He tried to meet her face again. This time, she kept her eyes carefully averted to the floor. "What would you have me do now?"

"Ask your guards if they will allow your chains to be removed so you might properly embrace your wife."

Erik froze. "You cannot be serious."

"Please!" she hissed.

The man sighed and planted another kiss upon her forehead, then turned to his vigilant observers. "_Effendi_," he called in Turkish, "might I have my liberty—just for a moment—to, ah, claim my wife's affections?"

The guards erupted in peels of hearty laughter, their shoulders shaking at the absurdity of the thought.

"_Ayip_," gasped the fat one as he wiped tears from his eyes, "from your ugly face, to your mockery, to the pretty girls that visit you, you have become a great source of delight for us here at the Rumeli Hisari. After your several failed attempts to leave us, do you really believe we would simply unchain you?" The man burst into laughter again.

Erik sneered at his jailers, then turned back to Papi. "Very well, we shall simply accomplish this with the irons. Madame, I believe now would be as good a time as any."

"Untie my sash," she whispered hurriedly.

Erik's fingers flew to the strip of silk at the woman's waist and fumbled with the knot at the back. "_Merde_." He sucked in his breath as pain radiated through the bones of broken hand.

"Your hand!" Papi gasped. "Can you do this with a broken—"

"Shhh—of course!" And just as he said it, the knot loosened beneath his fingertips. He felt beneath the strip of cloth—another band of something was looped around the woman's waist, concealed by the silk. A soft strip of hide, leathery and thin. His lips curled into a nefarious smile.

It was a punjab lasso.

"Really, my dear: the items ladies will wear to tease a man," he murmured into Papi's hair. Lowering his face to her neck, he scanned the room behind her; the prisoners, trying not to watch the intimate gestures between husband and wife; the guards, now huddled together, ribbing one another in raucous laughter; Nadir, positioned just behind them, bending over as if to rub his ankle, eyes trained on Erik. It was now or never. With deft fingers, he grasped the loop of the lasso and spun the woman away, throwing her to the ground. He whipped the rope above his head and loosed a cry of fury, yellow eyes blazing, chains clanking, and hurled the lasso towards his prey. The rope fell effortlessly around the fat gendarme's throat then was pulled taut, abruptly silencing the man's chuckles and cleanly snapping his neck.

Erik's eyes flew to his Persian friend; the daroga had already felled the rifled jailer with the dagger he had concealed at his ankle, and was dancing around the second, priestly garments whirling about his ankles, prepared to slit his throat. Nadir was maneuvering him closer. If the gendarme would just take a few more steps to the right, he would be within the punjab lasso's reach…

Erik grabbed Papi's arm and pointed to the dead gendarme at his feet. "The keys!" he cried.

The woman's eyes widened and she dove for the corpse's ring of keys, fumbling them in her short fingers. Wild shouts rose up at once, each of the prisoners holding out his hands to the frantic woman and crying for help. She shook her head sadly at them and knelt next to Erik's shackled feet, struggling to fit the first key into the lock.

"Be still!" she commanded and pounded her little fist upon the man's foot.

Erik hissed and frowned down upon her, then turned back to the daroga's fight.

The first key did not work.

"God help me!" Papi sobbed and tried the next. It was not good, either. Her trembling fingers ran over the keys, searching for one that might fit the lock. The metal loop fell from her hands and clattered upon the cold stone. She scooped them up again and tried a third, and a fourth.

"They aren't working!" she wailed and stared up at Erik, just in time to see the lasso go flying from his person and cinch tightly about the third guard's throat. This time, his prey's neck did not snap as nicely as the previous kill's. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Papi watching in horror as the man struggled against the rope like a carp hooked by a line, the monster at the other end dragging him forward with a power altogether unreal for such a haggard, spindly body. And then Erik threw the man to the floor and pulled the rope…pulled and pulled, choking the breath from the fallen guard and with it, his life. Choking…

Papi opened her mouth and screamed, but no sound came from it; her breath had gone with the man's. Then Erik loosed the lasso from the dead man's throat, and she saw that it was broken and ruddy, angrily streaked with the brand of death that would be forever burned into her memory. She covered her face with her hands, not wanting to witness the hideous site.

"Papillon!" Someone was clutching her shoulders and shaking her. She lowered her hands and found Nadir before her, eyes burning, face creased with worry. She blinked and turned to the grisly scene again, only to see that Erik was now finished with the man and was hunched over his shackles, unlocking them with her abandoned keys.

"Get up, both of you!" he ordered, his irons falling away. Leaping to his feet, he reached down and lifted the maid to hers, then sprinted into the dark path to the right.

"But Monsieur, the exit is to the left!" the woman cried, knowing that her words fell upon deaf ears. "We do not know where that path leads!"

"The other way leads only to death, Mam'selle. Can you not already hear the guards' cries?" She listened and sure enough, the shouts of "_Karsilastirmak e daire!_" echoed through the Hisari, alerting all to the occurrences in the prison chambers. The Persian took her hand and pulled her along, stumbling, in pursuit of Erik.

On and on they ran through the nearly black hallway, winding through a blur of stones and doorways, circling up, up through the Hisari fortress. Guards turned their heads in astonishment, barely having time to react before their throats were mercilessly slit or necks snapped by the lethal punjab lasso.

"Well now, I am free, daroga!" the assassin called over his shoulder. "What are your plans?"

"We need to find a way outside!" answered the Persian, fast on his heels.

Erik snorted. "I had deduced as much. I assume you know a way out of Istanbul? I have not had much of a chance to explore the city these past months."

"Father Jakob Haar is waiting with horses in the line of trees, just beyond the walls."

"That old priest from Jerusalem?"

"Yes, he was called to help. From there, we ride southeast along the coast until we reach the place where the Bosphorus empties into the sea. The _Kairos_, a fishing vessel, will be waiting to sail us across the Sea of Marmara to Greece—"

"—How many?"

"What?"

Another turn to the right. "How many horses, daroga? It is a simple question!"

"Three!"

"Good, good—just enough. I will need to make a detour; Christine is here, by the way."

The Persian halted dead in his tracks, nearly causing Papi to crash into him. He stared at Erik's retreating back, thoroughly agog.

Erik spun around. "For God's sake, Nadir! I would like to leave this accursed place—preferably sooner than later!" He started down the hallway again. "Christine is in Constantinople. So is that caretaker of hers. Someone must go find them before we leave."

"Papa!" yelped the maid, grabbing the daroga's sleeve. "Papa is here? M. Khan, we must go back for them, please! I will—"

The faint shouts of Turkish soldiers met their ears, coming from both ends of the twisting path. Soon, they would be trapped in the hallway, fighting back to back if they did not move with haste. Erik turned another corner and sprinted further, then stopped to stare up at the ceiling. It was a trap door of sorts—an ancient one with thick hinges and an iron latch—presumably in place to serve as an escape route should the outer parapet fall under attack. He stretched his long frame up and reached for the handle. It would not open. Pushing at the door, he jiggled the rusted latch to no effect. The door was locked.

"Hoist me up, Nadir," he ordered.

The Persian laced his fingers and stooped over, allowing his friend to step into his hands. Erik flew against the door, throwing his shoulder into it several times until, finally, the old stone began to crumble out from under the latch and hinges. He flung open the door and pulled himself through the roof, into the warm evening air. Breathing deeply, he reached down for Papi and then Nadir, wincing as the man grasped his broken hand.

"I am glad to have you on the other side of danger this time, _du stæm_," the daroga exclaimed as they let the heavy door fall shut. "Now you may put your brief career in heroism behind you."

Erik shook his head and pointed behind his friend, at the far bastion. "I hardly think we are out of danger yet. There are at least two gendarmes at every tower, daroga." His finger traced down the parapet. "Our best chance is to dispense of those guards at the tower next to the water's edge, at the bottom of the hill. Come!"

The three swiftly ran along the roof towards the gate tower, just as the first rifle shots whizzed past their heads and struck the stones to the left. Down, down they raced, towards the Bosphorus, ducking between merlons and crenels to escape bullets, pausing only in their mad escape to rid themselves of one, then two gendarmes who stood in their way.

Several more shots ricocheted against the battlement, shattering the rock across the path. With a cry of pain, Papi tumbled to the ground as fire suddenly engulfed her entire body, radiating up and down her limbs. She hurriedly tried to right herself, but fell back again, clutching at her middle in agony. "_Dieu du ciel!_" she breathed, hissing even at the slight intake of air. _The pain…so much pain, all over… sweeping… burning… _She knew what had happened, knew what had hit her not just once, but twice…understood the gravity of her injuries. Even now, in the waning light, she could see the inky stain rapidly spreading through the black cloth of her robes, clinging to her leg and to her side, just below her ribs…

"Papillon!"

She hurriedly covered her midsection, shielding her wound from her dear friend's eyes.

Nadir Khan grasped the woman under her arms and pulled her to the side, out of the treacherous path. He fell to his knees next to her, his frightened jade eyes sweeping up and down her body, finally coming to rest upon her contorted face.

"Where?" he asked softly.

"My leg, just below my knee," she answered through clenched teeth.

The Persian gently pulled away the sticky black cloth to inspect the damage to her shattered shinbone, placing a soothing hand upon her forehead when she gasped in pain.

"What is it?" Erik shouted from the next tower.

"Mlle. Nitot has been shot!" the daroga answered.

Erik sprinted back up the parapet. Breathing heavily, he swiftly took in the situation. Without so much as a request for pardon, the man pushed back the woman's skirt, hissing at the deep injury. Ripping a strip of material from Papi's black skirting, he bound it tightly below her knee to stop the blood from flowing.

Another shot burrowed into the stones behind them. Two more gendarmes were racing towards them, halting to reload their weapons before firing again. With a fierce growl, the daroga sprung forward and barreled into the Turks, bringing one of them down as he tumbled to ground in a flurry of black cloth and glinting blades.

Papi screamed as she saw the fallen guard fling his fist into the Persian's jaw; Nadir fell back, momentarily stunned by the hit before swinging around to plunge his dagger in to the man's side. He rolled away from the guard just as the other raised the butt of his rifle high above his head to bring it down with such a force, Papi was certain her friend would see only black in an instant. She closed her eyes.

The rifle did not make contact with his head, however; when she opened her eyes again, she saw only a flailing man tumbling to the ground, a rope snug around his neck. She breathed a sigh of relief, then winced again as waves of pain flooded through her body.

Soon, however, the pain began to recede. It faded from her limbs, her ribs, insides, leaving only a blessed numbness in its wake. By the time Nadir finished the second guard, returned, and carefully lifted her into his arms, she could barely feel anything at all.

"We are going to have to jump," Erik said, peering down over the wall.

"You are insane!" the Persian cried. "We have no idea how shallow the water is. For all we know, it could be knee-deep. And Papillon is in no condition to leap off of a wall—"

"Use your head, daroga! This entire fort was built as a gateway onto the strait—its going to be deep enough for boats to sail into and dock. And Papi is going to have to go over the edge, or remain here! There is no other way…"

The maid opened her eyes to glance down into the black, watery abyss that was the Bosphorus. Nadir was right—in this darkness, there was no way to know how deep the water was. To stay here, though, and face certain death…

And then before either could stop him, Erik leapt off of the wall and into the waters three stories below, with a resounding splash. They stared into the darkness for what seemed to be ages, waiting for him to re-emerge. At last, his resurfaced and waved his hands in the air, motioning for them to follow suit.

Nadir hesitated.

"I can do it, M. Khan," Papi said, her voice trembling. "If you would only help me a little."

The Persian sighed and eased the woman to her feet, then wrapped an arm firmly around her waist. She linked her hands behind the man's neck and braced herself.

"I will kick for the both of us. Try not to hurt yourself," he murmured. "On the count of three. One…two…"

Papi took a deep breath and struggled not to scream as they went flying through the air, wind rushing past her face and stinging her limbs, before they crashed into the Bosphorus'cold waters. Down they plunged…down…deep into the murky blackness. Instinct told her to kick; she tried to move her legs, but to her horror, her muscles revolted, and she felt herself sinking even further. Weak and aching, she had nearly resigned herself to her fate when Nadir's arms came around her and pulled her up with him, kicking towards the surface. They broke into the air once more and gasped, coughing up water.

Erik was there next to them, guiding them towards the shore. Papi let her head fall back in exhaustion as she was lifted from the waters and carried along the shore towards the trees. Somewhere behind her, she could faintly hear the pinging of bullets as they hit the water, the guards still waiting for the escapee and his accomplices to surface. They had not been spotted, then; that was good. Everything was fine…just fine…

Her eyelids fluttered shut as the Persian jostled her slightly, shifting her weight in his arms. Her weight…she felt as if she were an object outside of herself, her body completely numb and lifeless….so heavy…

"Monsieur," said a voice somewhere in front of her. "It is good to see you again, my son….alive, considering the circumstances…had nearly given you up for dead…"

She could barely make out the snatches of conversation.

"…very well, Father. Thank you for coming...we must ride for the old city, for Christine and M. Nitot…then to the ship…..Nadir will go ahead to the ship…..attend to her wound…"

"…forgive me, but, your face…"

Everything fell silent. Only the rustle of the cypress leaves, the quiet whinnying of the horses…the squeak of leather as their saddles were adjusted, and the pounding of hooves as Erik and Father Jakob departed for the old city.

And then she was being lifted up and settled in front of Nadir, cradled gently in his arms. He was telling her that they were riding for the _Kairos_, which was waiting for them on the Sea of Marmara, and from there, to Greece. Greece was a magical place, he explained, covered with ruins of the ancients. She would like traveling through Greece, on their way to France. And then, home to Chagny.

_Home_…

Nadir was still speaking to her quietly, something about almost being to the boat, and the clouds covering the moon so there was nearly no light at all; but soon the storm would pass, and the moon would wax full and bright, like a pagan night. Like those nights at home, in the stream…singing…

_List and listen, over all,  
Nightingale most musical  
That ceases never;  
Grief begone, and let us be  
For a space, as glad as he;  
Time's flitting ever..._

_Flitting…_

_Flitting away, like a butterfly…_

Papillon sighed, the corners of her mouth turning up in a faint smile as the warmth of his arms enfolded her. Soon she would see her father again, and Christine and Jean-Paul.

_Raoul…and her little boy._

"Perri," she murmured.

ooOOoo

Nadir scanned the dark coast, searching for any sign of the _Kairos_. It was somewhere among the fishers that were docked for the night along the strait, if he could only spot the bold blue letters painted across her bow. He studied one boat after the other, dismissing them until his eyes fell upon a white and blue ship, gently rocking in the still waters of the Bosphorus. He chuckled. Of course! The "_Kairos" _was written in Greek letters.

"Papillon, I have found the boat!" he whispered into the woman's ear. No reply. _Unconscious, mercifully, _he thought. Swinging a leg over the saddle, he tucked her closer and slid down from the animal, then lowered her to the ground with the greatest of care.

She did not stir.

Nadir frowned as he peered down at the young maid's face through the darkness; not even the slightest flutter of an eyelash. "Mlle. Nitot," he whispered, and shook her gently. Nothing. He shook her again more forcefully this time, suddenly panicking at her lack of response.

It was then that the moon, whose silvery glow had been shrouded behind thick clouds through the night's early hours, broke through the darkness and chased away its covers, bathing Constantinople in its brilliance. Light fell across Papi's still face, revealing to Nadir the secret that she had silently carried with her. The man moaned, struggling fiercely to deny what he already knew to be true; the tell-tale streaks of blood across her face and neck; his own hands, arms, clothing, covered in red. It had not been her wounded limb that had bled so greatly.

Nadir frantically ran his hands over her midsection, searching for an answer. And he found it in the form of a second wound just under her ribs, massive and angry, intentionally concealed from his eyes by her layers of Turkish robes.

Papillon Nitot was dead.

It had been a mortal wound from the moment the bullet entered her. And it still bled between his fingers, though life had already slipped from her lovely body. He watched as her warm lifeblood spread over his hand; beautiful, even now. Slowly, he lowered his lips to her ashen brow and gently kissed it.

"_Beyn el-yasmin wer-rehani ya eni beyn…"_ he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. Tears began to stream down his face. He fiercely brushed them away, absently streaking his cheek with red. He swallowed and continued, his words broken.

"_The nightingale sang on the stem of the double jasmine, O anemones, O anemones…I intend to find my beloved, Between the jasmine and the basil."_

* * *

A/N – Papi's French folk song is an excerpt from "Love In May" by Jean Passerat, 1580. 

Definition of Kairos: _**Kairos**_ is an ancient greek word meaning the "right or opportune moment". It is now used in theology to describe the qualitative form of time. In rhetoric **kairos** is "a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved." (E. C. White, _Kaironomia _p. 13) _courtesy of wikipedia . org_

_Story recommendation: __Conversations with Vacant Chairs_ by BalletRat 

This is how much I trust my beta, Le Chat Noir. I have not yet read this story. In fact, I'm going to start it once I post this chapter. But it is finished, and she is gushing about it, so I simply have to recommend it!

Chat says, "Conversations with Vacant Chairs by BalletRat features my darling petit rats of the Opera's corps de ballet making mischief with a certain Opera Ghost. Its got a distinct Leroux bent, but it is ripe with humor in the early chapters. The overall tone is one of dark humor, and the authoress has a nice prose style that is clever and descriptive."

Read along with me! Enjoy!


	37. A Man Worthy

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement! Grad school apps are in, tests are being taken, and Frat is still being written ;)_

**

* * *

A Man Worthy **

"_Maman_…" Christine stirred uncomfortably at the sound of the urgent, childish voice echoing through the dark room.

"_Maman…_"

"Mmm. I am here, little man." A weight pressed upon her foggy, subconscious mind, and she vaguely realized that her eyes were closed. She struggled to open them against the exhaustion plaguing her weary body. Yes, the room was indeed dark; the sliver of light seeping in beneath the door was the only illumination, but in it, she made out the slight figure of her maid, already moving towards the cries of her son.

"Oh, thank you Papi," she said drowsily. "You will let me know if Jean-Paul needs me?"

The silent woman turned and nodded, her eyes shadowed behind the pale, blonde hair that hung over loosely over her face. "Of course," she murmured.

"_Maman!_" came the cry again. The maid turned back to her small charge…

"_Madame!_"

"_Madame!_" Christine buried her face in her pillow.

"Madame!" Bolting out of her bed, she glanced about, struggling to make sense of her surroundings. It was not her Paris home, but a Turkish inn. Not Jean-Paul's cries—her boy was far away in the Tatras, under the care of the Borochovs. A man…old Norry.

"Norry, what on earth—" She cracked the door open and squinted at her tousled caretaker.

"A brawl downstairs—a lot o' shoutin' and tossin' your name about. Someone is looking for you, Madame, an' they're not happy—givin' the inn people hell. I think it best we try to slip out of this place."

Christine leaned into the dimly-lit hallway and listened; sure enough, several Turkish voices echoed through the inn, obviously bewildered by whatever was taking place. One of the voices, though speaking Turkish, was distinctly rich and sardonic—a voice she would know anywhere.

"Erik," she breathed. Grabbing up her shawl and slippers, she hurried down the hall and flight of stairs towards the commotion, ignoring old Norry's warnings of danger. The stairway opened into the inn's wide entryway, and the scene unfolded before her. Two porters cowered behind a large desk, crouching low lest they be seen. Another porter stood with his back to the desk, wide-eyed and trembling, a pistol in his quaking hand. And at the center of the tableau was one man, cloaked and also armed, clutching a lasso in his hand and looking entirely the worse for wear in the harsh lamplight.

"_Mall!_" Erik cried, throwing his hand towards the stairs. "_Bakmak dolayi onlari ust katlar—Madame Reinard. Now!"_

The Turkish porter shook his head and stammered in broken French, "No one, _Effendi_. There is no one—called that! Please—I beg you. Go!"

The tall man growled and stepped forward.

"Erik!"

Erik started at the sound of his name and glanced up at the woman upon the stairs, his hood falling away from his unmasked, macabre face. The Turks gasped in horror and instantly pointed their pistols at her husband.

"Blessed Virgin protect us," Norry stammered behind her, clutching at her arms. "What_ is_ he? Don't go down there, Madame!" Ignoring his plea, Christine pushed his hands away and flew down the stairs, flinging herself in front of the targeted man.

"Do not shoot, please! He is my husband!" She held out her hands to stop them, as if her palms would shield her and Erik from any bullets whizzing in their direction. Stunned, the porters slowly lowered their pistols as the woman turned and wrapped her arms around the monster's neck, pressing her lips to his face again and again. "Thank God!" she sobbed into his neck. "You are alive, and you are safe. I waited for you all day in the spice market, and when you didn't come, I was afraid that—"

Erik's mouth quickly came down upon hers, silencing her words with a hard kiss that had behind it all of his own fear and fury he had suffered in their time apart.

"Christine…Christine," he sighed into her hair, "are you mad? _Never_ presume to so foolishly take a bullet for me, do you understand? I'll not have you lying dead at my feet after so long without you."

Christine mutely nodded into his shoulder, understanding that he was not only speaking of the several months he had spent in the Turkish prison.

"Come along," he choked out, pulling from her embrace. "We haven't much time before the guards are upon us, and I'd prefer not to spend another day in the Rumeli Hisari." His piercing eyes traveled past the gaping porters to old Norry—pale and clinging to the stair banister. "Father Jakob is waiting outside with two horses; we leave Istanbul tonight, with the daroga and your daughter."

The caretaker suddenly leapt to his feet. "My girl—she is here?"

"Yes, waiting for us at the docks. We must go!"

Christine grabbed his arm. "Erik, I have a few possessions upstairs in my room: my brooch, and the bracelet from Jerusalem—"

"Be quick."

She dashed up the stairs and to her room, nearly tumbling to the ground as she flung open the door. Tossing Erik's music-filled satchel onto her bed, she stuffed her gray dress, brooch and bracelet, lasso, liras, and a few other items inside before belting it. She then turned to her dresser and pulled out her Turkish cotton _kaftan_ and _yelek_ vest and smoothed the cloth over her growing middle, discarding her nightgown for them. Tying back her hair with her unwrapped turban and lacing her shoes, she swung the satchel over her shoulder and left the _Yesil Ev_ Inn behind.

Only Erik was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, his hood once more shadowing his features as he leered at the still-astonished Turkish innkeepers. Hearing Christine, he bounded halfway up the steps and grasped her hand, pulling her along behind him.

"Norry is outside with the horses," he called over his shoulder. Casting one more black warning the porters' way, he swept out of the inn and around the back to where their companions waited, already upon one of the animals. He took Christine's satchel and he lifted her onto the second horse, then leapt up into the saddle behind her, wrapped an arm securely around her waist, and stirred the horse into a sudden gallop.

Buildings rushed past them as the horses tore through the streets, dodging columns and courtyard fountains. Just above them, the Blue Mosque with its towers and tiles lorded over the ancient city, its domes flickering ominous and holy in its torchlight as if flames engulfed its stones behind the walls. Rounding a corner, the riders ducked under an archway and fled down the narrow street, the Blue Mosque now obscured from sight. Hooves pounded the ground as the horses wound their way towards the Bosphorus, carrying their passengers from the heart of Istanbul. The riders did not slow their pace until the smell of fish and salt greeted them, signaling the onslaught of murky waters if they failed to halt.

"Which is it, Father?" Erik asked, his eyes sweeping over the hundreds of fishing boats docked along the shore.

"The _Kairos_," thepriest answered. "It is a smaller vessel with cramped quarters, but will serve its purpose for the short trip to the Aegean island of Limnos, where we will find beds, baths, and warm food waiting. The crew is a somewhat surly lot of sailors who are used to cargos of questionable nature, and your friend had to pay handsomely for the ship's use. It should be farther south, towards the place where the Bosphorus meets the Sea of Marmara."

Erik nodded and turned the horse south along the shore, this time riding slowly enough to blend in with the surrounding homes and cypress and cause as little disturbance as possible. The night was still, and thankfully, gendarme-free; it was not long before they came upon their fishing boat, its blue and white bow emblazoned with the Greek "Kairos". The weary four slid down from their rented mounts and slapped animals' rumps to send them home to their stable, then stumbled towards freedom.

"My friends," Father Jakob called out to the boat's hidden men, "it is time to sail." One of the crew—an older, grizzled gentleman—poked his head out from beneath the deck and waived a woolen fisherman's cap, signaling them aboard. One by one, the four climbed into the _Kairos_, their eyes searching for the others of their party.

The area below deck was small and crammed with bunks, chairs, nets and ropes, pots and pans, storage crates, and other necessities. To the left was a captain's cabin and to the right, a makeshift washroom and another cabin. The crew swarmed around each the new arrivals, climbing up and down the ladder, getting ready to sail.

It was the daroga who met them below, stunned as he suddenly found himself being shuffled between a grateful Christine and an anxious Norry.

"M. Khan!" The aged servant grabbed the Persian's shoulder, forgetting formal greetings and demanding his attention. "Where is Papi? Her old papa would like to see her."

Nadir stared at the caretaker for a full minute as if he did not see the man before him, did not even understand what he had asked. He studied Norry's face, trying to make sense of his words.

An uncomfortable silence settled over all aboard the _Kairos_. The crew hurriedly glanced away and retreated above deck, busying themselves with preparations for the short journey to Limnos. Erik stepped towards his friend, grasping the Persian's other shoulder to shake him out of his trance.

"Daroga, what is the matter?" he asked apprehensively. "Tell the man where his daughter is."

The Persian blinked and slowly scanned the other confused faces, his jade eyes glazed and dull, before finally resting upon Erik's unmasked face.

"She is in the next room. Come M. Nitot, I will take you to her," he absently replied. Shaking his head, he struggled to focus on the person before him, taking in his now fear-filled eyes.

"Your daughter is dead."

ooOOoo

Christine weaved through the below deck area and rapped on the washroom's door, waiting for a reply.

"Enter."

A rush of hot air and steam flooded out when she opened the door and she squinted, peering into the fog. Erik was there in a makeshift bath, head tilted and eyes closed, his arms resting on the metal sides. His bony shoulders and back were spattered with ugly bruises and cuts, some of them red and angry from neglect. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she hugged the towels to her and stepped into the room, pushing the shock of her friend's death from her mind.

"You found the items?"

Christine nodded, and then replied "Yes" when he did not open his eyes. "Scissors, razor, shaving cream, mirror, and anything else we might need to make you presentable again."

Erik snorted. "One could hardly call _me_ presentable, unshorn or shaven."

"You do look cleaner, though."

"Yes. After having one of the crew assist me in drawing three baths, I finally have managed not to immediately turn this one to filth. However, I doubt the young man will return—he accidentally caught a glimpse of my face despite my best efforts to keep it turned from him, and seemed most, ah, _startled_. Perhaps you might try to convince him later that what he saw was a combination of shadow and imagination? The prospect of being hurled overboard is not a pleasant one."

"I shall try." Kneeling next to the bath, Christine handed the scissors to her husband and held the mirror, watching as the somnolent man struggled to hold them. His left hand shook as he tried to put the blades to his unruly hair, and it was then that she noticed his other hand, cradled at his side. Her fingers gently wrapped around his broken ones and she lifted them to her lips.

"What did they do to you, Erik?" she whispered sorrowfully into his raw hand.

He carefully extracted it from her grasp and turned from her, his mouth pursing thinly. "Nothing that should concern you, my angel," he snapped. When her fingers traveled up his arm and took the scissors from his hand, however, he did not protest; instead, he leaned back and allowed her to do what he obviously could not.

"Nadir and Papi managed to carry some of our things with them from Jerusalem," she explained, filling the heavy silence as she cut. "They found a few of Jean-Paul's toys, books, clothing, and—oh! They recovered my father's violin." She smiled softly. "_Your_ violin. And several other items you might wish to have, as well."

"My masks?"

"Yes."

The man froze beneath her hands. "Do you wish me to wear one?"

"No! I mean, _I _do not wish it," she replied, one small finger tracing his jaw line. "It doesn't matter to me. There are others, though…"

"I understand."

"Erik, please—"

He brushed her hand away. "No really, Christine, I _do_ understand. I have lived with this corpse-of-a-face since before you were born, believe me, and if I have not realized its effect upon others by now, then I am a hopeless cause. Of course you would not want to be seen in public with one such as I."

Christine caught her lip between her teeth, mentally chiding herself for her blunder. "I do not mind it at all," she replied quietly.

Erik sighed and patted her hand. "I know you do not, Christine. Forgive my boorishness; magnanimity is sadly lacking this morning."

Another long lapse in conversation descended between them as she snipped away the wildness, smoothing her fingers through his wet hair and sleeking it back against his scalp. He exhaled slowly and let his head fall back against her shoulder, reveling in his wife's feathery touch upon his face. Christine smiled, humming as she studied the strong, angular lines of his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, and breathed, and spoke.

"You know where I have been these past months," Erik mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Tell me what you have done with yourself."

"I hardly know where to begin."

"Why not tell me how you escaped Jerusalem?"

"Ah, well. Hmm." Christine's face flushed scarlet. "I killed a man."

Erik's bolted out of the water, his eyes flying open. "Good God—who? How?"

"The Lion's Gate guard—the one with the wayward hands? I used the lasso, and you did not ask this, but I did it because he would have turned us over to Mas. I didn't think; I just grabbed the rope, threw it around his neck, and pulled and pulled until he was dead. I _had_ to, Erik," she said emphatically.

"My dear child, you need not explain your motives to me. I am simply relieved you made it out of the city alive." His worried gaze swept over her face and hair. Long, thin fingers reached out and took one of the brown curls, toying with it. "And have you made your peace with it?"

Christine nodded. "My son was in danger; there was no other way."

Erik exhaled in relief. "I am glad to hear it." He settled back into the water, allowing his head to once more rest on the metal rim. Christine held up the razor and shaving cream in silent question. "I suppose so," he replied, "although, try to refrain from rendering the left side of my face as hideous as the right." He waved his hand. "Please continue. From Jerusalem, you traveled to…"

"Prague."

"Ah. And what did you find there? Or rather, who?" Although his tone was disinterested and the request was framed innocently enough, Christine sensed an underlying tension, near frantic quality to the calm possessing her husband.

"You would never believe me if I told you."

"We shall see." His eyebrow quirked up in challenge.

The razor paused just above his face as Christine's eyes met his, unwavering. "Raoul is dead, Erik. Someone else, however, is very much alive. That is what you wanted to know?"

"Hmmm. I thought he must be dead," he smoothly lied, turning his face away so she could not see the smile playing upon his lips. "Well, I am sorry to hear it."

She carefully ran the razor blade along his cheek, shaking her head. "I doubt you are sorry; not in the least. They are very sad, very horrible—the circumstances which brought about his death."

"My dear, you can hardly fault a man for being relieved to hear his wife's first husband is truly deceased."

Christine sighed in exasperation. "Oh Erik, you _have_ to know that if Raoul were alive, I would still remain with you. I made a promise to you—"

"But you also promised _that boy_," he retorted.

"And _that boy_—_Raoul_," she corrected, "is gone. It is time to put him behind us, once and for all. Agreed?" She set the razor down and held out her hand as if striking a bargain.

Erik clasped it, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Agreed. Now, who is still alive?"

Christine shook her head in refusal, and lifted the blade to his chin. "Let me finish this, and then we will discuss it. After all, I have strict instructions not to inflict any more damage upon your person." Erik "hmphed" at her cheekiness but did as she asked, uttering not a word until he was smooth-faced. Being sent off on a mission for bandages, she tracked down the young man who had been assisting with bath water, and after somehow convincing him through wild hand gestures that yes, Erik was her husband and no, he would not harm her or any of the crew, acquired several rolls of soft white material. By the time she returned, she found that her husband had wandered to their cramped cabin. He had also already discovered the set of clothing and masks retrieved from Jerusalem, and was busy struggling through a row of buttons on his crisp, white shirt.

"Damned things," he muttered in frustration, forgoing the top two collar buttons and folding up the cuffs over his slender wrists.

Christine's eyes swept over his ill-fitted clothing with concern. "I did not think it was possible for you to be any thinner, Erik. You've lost nearly two stone."

He waved away the remark. "I have been thinner, angel." Smoothing his hair into place, he pulled a small table and chair away from the wall and sat down, resting his right arm upon its surface. Taking one of the rolls from Christine, he began the arduous task of bandaging his much-abused hand. "Very well," he hissed through clenched teeth, patience running thin, "you have had your way. Tell me about this person who has risen from the dead."

"Philippe de Chagny. He faked his death."

Erik blanched for a moment, the hand clutching the bandages stilling. "Go on."

So Christine settled onto the bed as Erik finished with the bandages, telling him of the secrets Prague had revealed to her: of her visit to the _Ceska Obchodni Banka_, finding the incriminating papers and a letter from Raoul in box six-six-five, along with an address in Prague. She explained how she had found not Raoul but Philippe, now a shell of a man who had been betrayed by his beloved _Fraternité_, only to then secretly betray his own flesh and blood for them.

"I did not think it possible for me to loathe and pity another as much as I did you, when you abducted me after _Don Juan Triumphant_," Christine confessed. "But after seeing Philippe and hearing what he did to Raoul, I find I still have much more hatred left to give."

"Then it is a good thing your pity outweighs your hatred," Erik said pointedly.

"Yes, I suppose so," she answered, not entirely sure of the fact. "However, one good thing has come out of this: you did not murder the Comte after all."

Erik thoughtfully ran a finger along his chin, studying some faraway speck across the room. "How very curious," he said at last.

Christine frowned, her lips slipping into a disappointed pout. "That is all you are going to say: 'How curious'? Aren't you pleased?"

"Honestly Christine, it is by chance that his life was spared. If you had not been crying and pounding upon the walls of the Louis-Philippe room at the time, I more than likely would have known that he was on the shores of Averne and made a swift end of him."

"Then why—that morning in London—did you tell me you had killed him?"

"Because I actually _believed_ I had. Christine, I was insane; fixated on the one thing I wanted, and hell-bent to destroy anyone who got in my way. His 'death' certainly wasn't an accident, so who else could have murdered him? My stay in the Rumeli Hisari, however, afforded me quite a lot time for rumination, and I began to realize the events of that night hardly allowed me time to drown the Comte de Chagny. I don't mean to say I knew he was actually _alive_," he rushed on, soothing his wife's ruffled spirit. "_That_, I admit, is quite a shock."

"Yes," Christine murmured, somewhat placated. Rising from the bed, she knelt next to Erik and rested her head upon his knee, sighing contentedly as his familiar fingers weaved their way into her curls. "There is still one thing that I did not find in Prague: the oath of _Fraternité_. I went through Raoul's stack of papers again and again, but there was no list of names, no old parchments, nothing."

"Ah. I believe that your husband can be of some assistance here. The oath is almost certainly still in Paris. In fact, I think it very likely that the young Comte de Chagny hid it in the most unlikely of places: beneath the Paris Opera house."

It was Christine's turn to be astonished as Erik, in turn, told of how he believed Raoul had descended into the fifth cellar expecting to bury the oath along with body of an enemy, but found, to his horror, that the opera ghost was alive and well. "I didn't actually see him put the thing in the trap door," he said with dismay. "Two of his gardeners were gallivanting through my labyrinth, and I very well couldn't let them have the run of the place without supervision. When I returned, I found the boy frantic to replace the trap door and escape aboveground. It never occurred to me that he might have hidden something there until now."

"I suppose it is to Paris then," Christine murmured.

"I think not. Once we reach Limnos, we should separate; I will return to Paris, and you will go to the Borochovs and Jean-Paul in Bohemia."

Christine sat up, pulling her head away from his hand. "Erik, no!"

"Paris will be dangerous, Christine—"

"I'll not leave you again."

"You must listen to reason!" he growled.

"I _am_ being reasonable!" she retorted with equal ferocity. "You know just as I do that Mas will track me anywhere, whether to Paris or to the Tatras. And as my son resides in the Tatras, I'll not lead the monster there. I have to stop running at some point, Erik."

Erik sighed and let his head fall back, too exhausted to deal with his wife's stubborn qualities. "Fine, Christine," he said at last, defeated. "You know I cannot refuse you anything. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to rest these poor old bones before we throw ourselves to the lions."

Christine willed her pulsing blood to slow. She watched in hurt confusion her husband lower his weary body into their bed, remove his mask, and pull the blanket over his shoulders.

"Don't you want to know about Papi?" she asked softly.

"No, I do not."

"But…we have not seen each other in nearly four months. I thought that…maybe…"

He abruptly turned his back upon her, signaling an end to the matter.

"Sleep well, then," she said and slipped from the room in dejection. Yes, he was exhausted and yes, Papi's death was overwhelming. Something more foreboding, however, more far-reaching troubled her than his refusal to acknowledge the tragedy which had befallen them; something that wrenched her heart cruelly within her chest...

Erik had not noticed their child.

ooOOoo

And so another game began in the small port city of Myrina on the island of Limnos, a bit of lush earth at the heart of a land war between Greece, the Ottomans, and even Russia. The harbor town was tucked away between rolling hills and gleamed white in the afternoon sun, beckoning to them with the promise of soft beds and fresh foods.

For Christine, though, sleep seemed ever elusive when much heavier matters pressed upon her mind. Erik, so it seemed, was once again embracing death like a lover, madly shutting away the light and all who lived in it as if they threatened his very existence. In short, Erik was slowly dying.

After bathing and putting on the one gray dress she had managed to grab in Constantinople, she watched her sleeping husband for a moment. His eyes fluttered almost imperceptibly and she thought that maybe he was awake, but did not to press the matter. Instead, she knelt next to him and kissed him softly, murmured a quick "I'll return soon," and took herself downstairs in search of nourishment.

Her quest was not a long one. As she rounded a corner, she saw Nadir and Father Jakob seated in an open-air nook framed by some sort of vine dotted with pink flowers, overlooking the town's red roofs and beyond them, blue waters. A long table spread with an assortment of breads, meats, feta, tomatoes, olives, and other morsels caught her eye and she immediately filled a plate and joined the two men. Father Jakob jumped up and slid out a chair for her.

"Thank you," Christine said gratefully and proceeded to make a large dent in her food.

"How is Erik?" Nadir asked.

"He is sleeping, but I am sure he will find his way downstairs for food before he withers away completely."

The Persian nodded, his irritation obvious. "M. Reinard has alternated between brooding and sleep these past two days. I had hoped to speak with him about several urgent matters in arranging for the trip back to France, but he seems to be in no hurry to leave."

Christine's eyes clouded tellingly. "The Rumeli Hisari depleted his strength, Monsieur. Perhaps he just needs more time…"

"I was the daroga of Mazenderan, Madame," he grimaced, "and spent another five years as its prisoner. I know exactly what Erik endured in the Rumeli Hisari. Unfortunately, we need to leave Myrina as soon as possible. Though the Ottomans tend to overlook the island, it is still under their rule."

"One more day, and he will be better," Christine begged, though she knew just as well as Nadir that once Erik descended into the darker regions of his mind, he was often there for weeks. But time was not a luxury they could afford, and at last she sighed and gave in, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I shall speak to him, Nadir."

Speaking to Erik, of course, proved to be useless; she just as well could have spoken to an empty room, for all the good it did. Night and day, the man scribbled music on paper, the notes penned by his left hand crooked and wobbly. For three days he continued in such a manner—composing and staring, staring and composing, brushing away her attempts to persuade him to eat, or sleep, or even speak. At last, she had had enough.

"Very well, let yourself go," she cried. "Hide away. Drive yourself into your grave, after all that we have done to keep you from it! You have always told me it was where you belonged."

He merely glanced up from his work uncomprehendingly, as if he had been aware she was speaking to him but had not thought it to be of any great importance.

"What was that?"

With an angry stamp of her foot, she tore from the room and slammed the door behind her, running down the hall. Tears blurring her vision and stinging her eyes, she did not stop until she flew headlong into Norris Nitot.

Norry smiled feebly as he helped the woman to her feet. 'Being a bully now, is he?"

Christine sniffed. "Insufferably apathetic is closer to it. Sometimes I truly wonder if he has any notion of others outside of himself; it's as if I'm shouting at the dead." The old caretaker winced, and Christine immediately realized her blunder. She clasped his arm. "Oh Norry, I am sorry, how incredibly insensitive. Please forgive me. How are you doing?"

The man swallowed and averted his eyes, struggling to steady his voice. "Don't fret yourself over it, Madame," he mumbled. "I'd rather not have anyone making a fuss. She wouldn't want it."

"No."

"I just hope that devil of a man realizes what my girlie did for him," he continued, his words edged with bitterness.

"I know he does, Norry."

"He has an odd way of showin' it."

"Yes…" Christine lifted her hands helplessly. "Really, Norry, this whole thing is my fault; if I hadn't gone to London, had stayed in France—"

The old man held up a hand. "If you don't mind, Ma'am, I'd rather not get into this discussion just now. The truth of it is that Papillon made her choice, and I'll not have anyone take it from her. She would have done anything for Raoul de Chagny, and for you…" He blinked several times, his wizened eyes glistening. Muttering a quiet "excuse me," he brushed past the woman and ducked into his room.

Lowering her head in shame, Christine continued through the hallway and down the stairs for her evening walk. She wanted to forget, just for a moment, the overwhelming sadness making a permanent home in her soul. When she opened the inn door, however, a surprisingly cool gust of wind hit her and she dashed back up the stairs to fetch her wrap.

She had hardly entered the room before Erik's voice greeted her.

"How is Monsieur Nitot?"

Startled, Christine's hand flew to her heart. "As well as can be expected. Sleeping, of course. I believe he is still in shock, but once it settles in…who can say?" She gazed up at her emaciated husband, taking in his ink-stained hands and dozens of sheets of music scattered across the floor. "The crew of the _Kairos_ agreed to…to make arrangements to…prepare her for travel back to France. They found a suitable coffin yesterday, and Father Jakob is consulting Norry on what should be done." She twirled a bit of skirt around her little finger. "Did Nadir tell you how it happened?"

He nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes closing. "I knew that a bullet had grazed Mlle. Nitot's leg during our escape from the Hisari. According to Nadir, though, she was shot more than once." He paused for a moment to clear his throat. "We could not do anything, you see, because we didn't know. Even if we _had_ known, there was nothing to be done. It is an utter waste of humanity."

"Papi did not think so."

"Papillon Nitot was a fool," he hissed, his gold eyes flying open. "I cannot begin to guess why she wanted to throw her life away in such a useless manner, but it can't be helped now. In the end, she got what she wanted: triumph over me and your gratitude, two birds with one stone."

"Do not say such things, please."

"And why should I not speak the truth, Christine? Your friend was never one to be indebted to anybody, least of all, me. It probably rankled her to know that she left Jerusalem alive because I literally threw myself to the Turks."

"That is beside the point—"

"Can you deny it?"

"No! I mean, yes!" Christine's brow furrowed. "Yes, Papi did not like to be indebted to others. That does not mean her sacrifice was baseless."

"How, Christine?" Erik fixed fierce eyes upon the woman. "How is her death justified? Tell me, why should Papillon Nitot die and Erik live?"

She shook her head. "Erik, please—"

"It is a legitimate question."

"Because—" Christine searched for some answer, any answer, but found she had none. Pressing her palms to her eyes, she cast about for some reason. "I don't know," she at last answered honestly, "but as I have said before: something good must come from the bad."

Erik turned his face away, disgusted. "You are parroting someone, Christine; your father, probably. What good can _possibly_ come from this…obscenity?"

Christine jumped to her feet and strode over to the small, barred window to hide angry tears. The window overlooked the harbor; she glared at the rosy expanse of water reflecting the sun's fading rays as it set over the sea, its light fragmented into a thousand little pieces. Fishing boats were just now coming in, the crews anxious to be home for their suppers. Back and forth they leisurely sailed, almost as if they had no destination.

Erik pressed on. "You think she gave her life for me out of love, or compassion, or whatever sentiments drive other, more _worthy,_ people? Very well, believe that if it brings you comfort. _Merde,_ I certainly did not _ask_ for such generosity from your friend, and therefore, have absolutely no desire to dwell upon the enormity of her sacrifice. However, my little wife, _you_ are the one who has broached the subject."

She had not, but held her tongue and observed another little boat sailing into the harbor, its blue letters bounding in and out of the sea…the _Kairos_. Suddenly she was struck with incredulity as she realized she had seen this boat long before she boarded it in Constantinople. What had been said to her?

_If you truly desire to save him, you must help your angel to face himself; there is no other way…_

Just off of a stormy beach in Brittany—the _Kairos_. And she knew that now she had to grasp the moment or it, and he, would be gone forever.

"Answer me. Why her life for mine? Why am I the more worthy to live?" Erik's quiet words were more of a plea than a command. Christine studied the harbor for several minutes, searching her mind for the right words, then turned away from the window and the little boat to kneel next to him.

"Truthfully, I cannot say what Papi was thinking, Erik, or why she did what she did. However, I believe you are asking the wrong question," she said cautiously. "It isn't a question of whether you have been or _are _worthy, but rather, if you _can _be worthy." Christine placed her trembling hand over the top of his, trying desperately to see the face he carefully averted from hers. "_Can_ you be, Erik? Is there a greater good that might justify Papi's death? Or maybe you are afraid of me, _of our child_—"

"Leave."

She blinked in surprise. "I…beg your pardon?"

Erik turned slowly, deliberately, his cold eyes sending chills through her heart. "I asked you to leave."

"But—"

"Good God, which word do you not understand? I. Want. You. To. Leave."

Christine stared at him, open-mouthed, at a loss for words. His abruptness left her numb, his sudden hatred, cold. And then she realized that she had hit the nail squarely on the head. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed she was carrying his child. Oh, he had noticed, most certainly; he noticed everything about her. _Erik was_ _afraid_. Afraid he could not be worthy of the life growing inside of her, and of Papi's death.

And there was not a single thing she could say to change his mind.

Steeling her shoulders, Christine rose from the floor and quietly slipped from the room. She flew through the inn doors and stumbled down to the beach, heedless of the ruin the seawater and sand would make of her shoes. Picking up a thin piece of driftwood, she swept along the shore, swiping at the delicate clusters of reeds growing there. Overhead, the evening sky was filling with thick, grey pillars of clouds, which blotted out the sinking sun and cast the world in early darkness. Running the piece of driftwood through the sand, she scrawled several letters—R…E…I…N—before red anger consumed her and she hurled the stick into the sea.

"Is _this_ what I have fought so long for?" Christine whispered fiercely to the sky. "Risked my son, my friends, my very life…for this? A husband who is no better off now than when he was alone and unloved, dying in his cellar beneath the opera." Overwhelmed by grief, she collapsed on the ground and buried her face in her hands, tears of fury spilled down her cheeks. She wept until great, shuddery breaths shook her shoulders.

It was not an easy thing, to love a man who could look upon her with complete adoration, then flip and freeze her with his coldness. Truly, she did not believe she could survive in such a way for the rest of her life. And if _she_ could not, how could her little children?

Christine pressed her fingertips to her lips and smoothed them over her rounded abdomen, a feeling of intense desire to protect her baby surging through her. Resting her palm over her child, she vowed to do everything she could to give her little one the best life possible, with or without Erik.

Some minutes later, peace settled through her as she watched the waves grow stronger and clouds darken, until the storm drove her indoors. If she had glanced up towards her bedroom window at any time during her walk along the beach, she would have glimpsed golden eyes peering at her from behind a curtain, watching her every move, burning behind the white of a mask.

ooOOoo

"Christine said you wished to speak with me," Erik said as he strode into the inn's parlor that night, where the Persian held court with his hookah pipe.

"I did, two days ago."

Erik sighed and fell into the chair across from his friend. "Is that the same kind of narghile you were smoking in Jerusalem?"

Nadir merely grunted in response, his jade eyes fixed upon the oil lamp's dull, flickering flame.

"That poison will kill you, daroga."

"You are doing a much better job of it."

The masked man took in the Persian's stretched features and hard eyes, thinking that he somewhat resembled a squat cat whose patience had worn thin, ready to strike at the source of his annoyance. Clearing his throat, he tried a different approach.

"I feel I need to apologize to you. I have yet to properly thank you for tracking me down in Istanbul, and helping me to escape. The lengths you must have gone to—"

"We leave for France tomorrow," Nadir cut in, his words cool and clipped. "After Papillon's funeral, I will return to Paris with you, and then we go our separate ways."

"Very well."

"Permanently."

Erik shot out of his chair, his eyes growing wide. "Nadir, you cannot possibly…"

"I assure you I am sincere, _du stæm_. I am old and tired. I know longer wish to play your games, but as long as I remain in your company, they will never end."

The masked man stared at his friend in shock, then began to pace about the room, back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. At last he turned around and stared down at the seated Persian, his gold eyes glittering dangerously. "Games?" he hissed. "Tell me, my _friend_, which of my games do you tire of: the one in which I am thrown into prison for you, or in which I snap another man's neck before he slices you through? Perhaps you are referring to the time years ago, when I helped your son—"

"When is your child to be born?"

Erik paused in his diatribe.

"You know you are to be a father, correct?"

"I fail to see how this is any of your concern."

Nadir continued. "You have always wanted a normal life, have you not? I know you have; you have mentioned it in several of your blasphemies. A wife…a child…a home above the ground… For one who has prayed so fervently for these things to a God one claims not to believe in, I am amazed you cannot recognize what is now before you." Nadir set aside the hookah pipe and rose from his chair, standing face to face with his friend. "This is why I want no part of you, Erik—Papillon Nitot died so you could live a life that has, until now, been denied you. Your ungrateful games insult her very memory."

"Christine said something similar."

"You might listen to her, you know. Do not cut down the tree that gives you shade."

"Another proverb, Daroga?" Something in the way Nadir had spoken of the maid struck a familiar chord with Erik. And then his eyes opened; how could he have not seen it, before? In Jerusalem, he had been so wrapped up in his music, and the sun, and the world he and Christine created, he hadn't perceived something so important about his friend. He smiled sadly.

"You loved Mlle. Nitot."

"Yes."

"And yet you let her go into the Rumeli Hisari for me, knowing what might happen. What _did_ happen."

The Persian nodded. "She was a force to be reckoned with."

Erik sighed and turned to study a vase upon the mantle, tracing the delicate mythological paintings with his fingertip. "I tried to protect her, Nadir—just as you asked me to."

"I know," he answered, his voice breaking. "I was there. So did I. In the end, though, _she_ protected _me_."

Erik turned away from the Persian and returned to the armchair. Burying his face in his hands, he sat in quiet contemplation for such a long time, Nadir thought that perhaps his mind had retreated from the waking world. After awhile, he spoke, his words muffled.

"I am going to be a father, daroga; I cannot think of a greater travesty to inflict upon a child than for me to be his father."

Nadir, drained, slumped into the opposite chair. "Why?"

The other man's face came up from his hands, frozen in mute astonishment. "You cannot be serious."

"Have you not listened to anything I have said?"

"Daroga. I am a deformed murderer, a madman, a social phobic, and entirely selfish in regards to my music and my wife. I have little patience, or time, for children. Aristotle and Wagner will be better fathers to this poor child than I will ever be."

"Praise Allah for the mother," Nadir muttered. "Perhaps you should have thought of this beforehand."

Erik groaned, his head falling into his hand again.

"All of this may be true, Erik, but here is the trouble—if it _remains_ true, you will lose your young family. Be careful."

It was many hours later, after the Persian had retired for the night, that Erik, like a shadow, slipped through the dark hallways and into the room where Christine slept. Peeling away his clothing, his bandages, and lastly his mask, he knelt before his wife and watched her for some minutes with ineffable awe.

"Christine, wake up," he whispered, brushing one long finger along her cheek.

Her eyes languidly opened and then, all of a sudden, widened in fright. She gasped and sat up, her entire body going rigid in fear. "Erik, for God's sake—what is the matter? Is everything alright?"

Ignoring her confusion, he threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled her mouth to his and kissed her so deeply, every nerve in his body trembled with energy. Finally, he felt her relax against him and sigh, her lips moving against his neck.

"I have missed you," she murmured.

"And I you." He buried his face in her brown curls and rested there, knowing there would never be another peace as complete as this. It was with great reluctance that he pulled away, silencing her protests with a firm look. "Please, I must say this to you," he said calmly.

Christine quieted and watched him, waiting.

"I come to you tonight as a monster—no, let me finish. I said a monster, and I meant it. Twisted, deformed, broken and beaten... I have been so before, many times. Each time, however, you have made me human again—given me a soul."

"Erik," his wife breathed.

He kissed her forehead tenderly, clasped her hands in his, and continued. "I am asking you to make me human again, Christine. Remind me that I am a man, not a monster. If you could accomplish this one thing, then I swear that I will live every day of my life for you…and our children." Erik's eyes met hers, apprehensive and entreating her to answer.

Christine found that she could not speak, for she was certain that if she opened her mouth, she would weep and never cease. Instead, she took her husband's face in her hands and kissed it over and over…his sunken cheeks, twisting flesh and half-nose…until love gave way to longings so furious, they could only glory in their joys and sorrows. And when the fires abated and blood once more stilled, Erik wrapped his arms around his wife and rested his cheek upon her midsection, just above their unborn child.

Silently, fervently, he swore that he would be worthy of them.

* * *

A/N: I'll put something up on my Web site. I don't know what yet. Lets call it a surprise. 

(sings) Where have all the squee-ers gone? (whispers) To phansonline . net

**Story Recommendation: _Twisted, Every Sue_ by Deep Roller**

Nostalgia, ahoy! Yes, folks, lets go back to when the POTO movie was still playing in the theatres and the POTO fanfiction archive was only several pages long. Back to the births of many a ne'er-finished sequel story featuring our favorite heroine, Mary Sue.

This is one of the original Sue humor phics (aka the "Angel of Pudding" one), which was a predecessor to a plethora of other Sue humor phics. _Twisted, Every Sue_ is worth a read, not only for its rampant use of clichés, but also for the mental image of the Sues binding and gagging Christine, and sticking her in a closet (hugs poor Christine).

Enjoy!


	38. Soirée

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". _

_Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement! _

**

* * *

**

Soirée

The early morning sun was gloriously bright, its disingenuousness mocking the three men who stood grim and silent amidst the bustling seaport of Limnos Island. They watched with stony eyes as the crew of the _Kairos_ filed along the Myrina dock, bearing a plain cypress coffin upon their shoulders. Each of the three men was dressed in a lightweight suit, clutching bowler hats in their hands as if they were preparing to spend the day leisurely strolling about the green Mediterranean hills rather than beginning a long funeral procession to France. Yet it seemed only proper to abandon their worn _abayas_ and _thobs_. In a sense, they were putting the Mid-east behind them—banishing it to the past, only to be recalled as yet another faraway place in a long line of elusive, dreamlike journeys.

A fourth man—a robed priest—preceded the crew up the gang-plank, making the sign of the cross as the body of Papillon Nitot was carried aboard the fishing vessel. He stood aside for them to pass and then slowly moved towards the three mourners, extending a hand to each man.

"Monsieur Nitot," he said, "I am truly sorry for your loss." The old caretaker nodded, his haunted eyes still staring at dark doorway through which his daughter had been taken.

"I will always be grateful for what you did for my girlie, Father Jakob. Your orphanage gave her a chance to put her heart and hands to use again."

"She was a blessing to our mission in Jerusalem for the short time she was with us. Those children will never forget her; nor shall I."

"None of us will," said Nadir quietly. He cleared his throat. "Are you certain you will not travel with us to France?"

The priest shook his head. "My God calls me home, to Jerusalem. There is a greater good—a peace—that hovers just above the city, waiting to rain down upon its stones. I'd like to think that I will be in the middle of such a rain, when it comes."

"Then I pray that the blessings and peace of Allah will be upon you." Nadir grasped the man's hand. "_As-Salaam Alaikum_."

"_Wa Alaikum Salaam_," replied the priest. His old eyes crinkled as he smiled and turned to the severe-looking masked man standing next to the Persian. "The crowds of people make you uneasy, I think?"

Erik ignored the question. "My wife and I wish you a safe journey, Father, and thank you for all that you have done."

"I had wanted to say goodbye to Madame Reinard also." He glanced around the dockyard, searching for the young woman.

"She is already aboard the ship, resting in a cabin. Sleep was not her friend last night, I am afraid. The child—"

"The child, indeed," Nadir muttered. Erik glared at him coldly, and continued.

"_The child_ is causing her some discomfort. A sea voyage is not ideal, but we seem to have little choice."

The wizened cleric studied the man's face, noting his furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, the acerbic way he spat his words. _The child_. It was as if the very expression was sour upon his tongue. But then, most of what the embittered man said to anyone other than his wife dripped with vitriol; perhaps it was just his way. Father Jakob sighed.

"I cannot pretend to understand you, Monsieur Reinard. In the end, however, I believe you just might live up to your name. Honest…incorruptible…take it with you, hold it close. It is either this, or the thieving fox."

Erik's mouth quirked in amusement and he bowed low, dramatically, sweeping his bowler across the tops of his shoes before straightening and dropping it upon his head. "Father Jakob," he said sincerely, "you have my word."

ooOOoo

True to Erik's prediction, the sea voyage to France was not kind to Madame Reinard, just as it hadn't been aboard the _H.M.S. Inflexible_ so many months before. A brief respite in Athens gave the ill woman a chance to regain her sense of balance before they left the _Kairos_ behind for passage on a large steamship to carry them to Marseille. And then, despite the fresh sea air and sunny decks, Christine once again found herself victim to a weak stomach, confined to her cabin while her husband could only watch in bewildered concern.

"Is this…a normal occurrence?" he asked as he curiously studied his wife, whose face was buried in a pillow.

"If you had been sensible and traveled in our company the last time instead of prowling about and tormenting my _avocat_, I would not have to answer that question," she snipped.

"Ah, but if I had been aware of this…facet of your personality, I mightn't have married you, my wife," he said drolly, then neatly dodged a pillow as it hurtled past his head.

"Erik, leave!"

"When she speaks with her sweet, doll-like ways, it sets my heart on fire."

"_Mon Dieu_, you are trying! Please, leave me alone."

Undeterred, he sat next to her, pulled her hand from beneath the pillow and clasped it in mock veneration. "Certainly her innocent charms have bewitched me. As light as the finest spun glass, dainty in stature, she seems like a figure that has stepped down from a delicate screen—"

"Pinkerton indeed!"

"—and gently comes to rest with so much _silent_ grace, I am seized by passion and wish to give chase!" Erik wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, ignoring her squirming protests.

"Erik—go brood and write music, I beg of you!" Christine wrenched her arm from his grasp, inadvertently sending a swift elbow into his torso. Releasing her at once, he pressed a hand to his ribs.

"I have missed you, my angel." Wheezing in pain, he stepped back from his wife, holding up a hand to halt her profuse apologies. "No. I will leave as you ask." He quickly pressed his lips to her pale, clammy forehead, slipped on his lounge jacket and stepped into the cool evening air to search for an abandoned deck where he could walk and 'brood.'

Erik found such a deck not far from the hull; leaning against the iron rails, he stared, mesmerized, as the ship sliced through the sea and churned the blue-frothed waters over-top itself, disturbing the otherwise calm night. Such was his existence, so it seemed. He was doomed to topple the quiet balance of still waters, the promise of peace looming just ahead on the horizon, forever out-of-reach. Even now, when his wife's warm presence should have fulfilled the daroga's foretelling of quiet waters, the knowledge that he would face Mas Quennell when they reached Paris weighed heavily upon him and he found that, for the first time in his life, he had too much to lose.

A wife. A young child hidden away in Bohemia, and soon, a second child…what if he lost them again? Paris would be dangerous, and for the fiftieth time since he'd done it, Erik cursed himself for agreeing to take Christine with him.

And suppose they survived Paris. In four months, Christine would have her "lie-in," as she had so delicately put it. What if their child came early? Or what if his wife developed childbed fever after the birth? _What if…_Erik's blood turned to ice as he mutely traced the edge of his mask. Gripping the railing, he leaned down and pressed the unmasked side of his face to the cool metal, struggling to reel in his wild thoughts.

There were no answers; he knew as much. The part of his life not consumed by music had been dedicated to finding a reason why he looked as he did. Countless hours were spent studying theoretical medicine, alchemy, natural sciences, even Marx's alienation ideas and Mauss' reciprocity—all to answer the question "_why this face_?" And what had he gained? A startling genius and knowledge of all things, yet no concrete justification for the monstrosity he had been cursed with.

Erik wondered what Christine would think of having a deformed child.

He was just about to return to the cabin and ask her when a slight, shadowy movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He paused, listened, and continued walking. Someone was watching him, following him. Casually, he sauntered down the length of the ship, humming snatches of _Che faro_ and glancing at the ground every now and then to observe the human shadow cast by the flickering deck lights. He turned another corner. So did the shadow.

"_Merde_," he breathed as he found himself in the middle of a small first-class soirée on the stern. Weaving in between the glittering crowd, Erik flipped the collar of his jacket up to cover the masked side of his face as best as possible; still, a woman here, a man there, sneaked a curious look at the white flash of mask before conscientiously turning back to their conversation partner, burying their eyes behind a wine glass. Slipping into a dark doorway, he waited.

Sure enough, a man strode past the door as he frantically searched the hallway, his brown tweed coat conspicuous against the rich black eveningwear of the others. Erik waited a moment, then fell into stride behind the man, careful to maintain distance until they were well away from the party. Fingers grazing the rope looped at his waist, he called to the man in Russian.

"Gospadin, I wish to speak with you!"

Startled, the brown-coated man spun around, his eyes widening at the sight of the masked man stalking towards him, eyes cold and gleaming. And without a second thought, he ran.

Cursing, Erik gave chase. Down the decks he flew, evading flabbergasted nighttime strollers and wicker chairs, turning corner after corner until he was certain they had traversed the circumference of the boat. When he rounded another corner, however, the Russian was not there. Mytisfied, Erik clamored down a flight of metal stairs and searched dim hallways and rooms for the man. There was nothing; it was as if he had vanished into thin air.

When Erik returned his cabin shortly after the odd incident, he found Christine considerably improved from her latest bout of seasickness and folded into an armchair with a ship-loaned book, her limbs tucked beneath her, eyes riveted to the pages. She smiled warmly. As she took in his winded breathing and ashen face, however, the smile slipped and she stared, her own face paling.

"Already?" she whispered. "_They_ have found us?"

Erik nodded. The book fell from her hand and she closed her eyes.

"I thought someone had been watching me, but I could not be certain. I simply believed that our child was claiming my sanity along with every other part of me." Christine sighed. "French or Russian?"

"Russian—the _Narodnaya Volya_, I would imagine. He could only have boarded in Athens, which means…"

"The _Fraternité_ knew I had gone to Constantinople for you, and has been waiting for us to return to France," she finished.

"Possibly. I am sure they were watching other port cities, as well. But the essence of it is correct—they are holding back, waiting to see what we will do." He collapsed into the wingback chair next to her and rested his face in his hands, thinking. "I do not want you to go to Paris with me, Christine."

"Erik—"

"No, that is final. We reach the Gulf of Lyon in two days. Until then, do not leave the cabin without an escort, do you understand? Once we land in Marseille, we take the railway to Chalon-sur-Saône without delay. After Mlle. Nitot's funeral at the Chagny estate, I will return to the opera house and you will remain at your chateau with your household."

Heavy silence hung in the air as he finished his edict. And then, to his horror, Christine's face began to crumple and she hid her face in her hands, wiping tears away with her fingers. Through blurred eyes, she rummaged through her pockets, searching for a handkerchief. Sighing, the man reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and handed it to her.

"I _will_ come back, Christine." He dubiously eyed her as she dabbed at the tears relentlessly spilling over her cheeks.

"I know; please do not mind me," she sniffed. "You have no idea how ridiculous I feel, Erik. I cry at the slightest provocation! One minute I am ecstatic and the next, I am weeping because my waist is gone or my shoes are too tight. And every time I think of my son, alone in Bohemia…" The words caught in her throat and she sobbed, pressing Erik's handkerchief to her face.

"Yet another reason for you to remain at the estate," he replied, hurrying to change the uncomfortable subject. "Think of all that must be done to reaffirm Jean-Paul's place as Comte de Chagny. You have been away for nearly a year, Christine, as has that _avocat_ who was supposed to handle your affairs. No doubt the vultures of the aristocracy have been circling Jean-Paul's properties for some time."

"Ah yes," she muttered. "Raoul's sisters. How strange; I have hardly thought of them since we left London. In Jerusalem, it was as if they belonged to an entirely different life—a world that did not exist outside of the city walls." She blinked in surprise, then began to laugh quietly, her tears dissipating as quickly as they had appeared. "Can you imagine what they will think of me? The former Comtesse de Chagny is now _entirely_ too bohemian for their circles. Not only have I emerged from mourning a year early, I have also married Raoul's sworn enemy, hidden the Chagny heir away in the mountains, and have become…in the family way."

Erik grimaced. "Perhaps it would be better if I continued on to Paris instead of stopping at the Chagny ancestral home. My presence would be something of an insult, I think."

"Oh no!" she laughed. "You are my husband; you must take your rightful place by my side and brave the lion's den with me."

"I assume your household will know who I am?"

"If they do not know that you are the 'phantom', they will soon guess. The events of _Don Juan Triumphant_ were splashed across the front page of _L'Epoque_, Erik. Every proper aristocrat knew about the scandal, which made me at once glamorous and ostracized before I even entered a parlour. What is one more scandal to me?"

Erik carefully watched his wife; the way her blue eyes shifted to the floor, her nervous fingers twisting the handkerchief round and round. Oh yes, it bothered her very much, despite declaring otherwise. Sighing, he unfolded his long frame from the chair and crossed the cabin to the water decanter, pouring a glass. He pressed it into Christine's hands and she gratefully took it.

"You are too good for them, Christine," he said. "The whole lot is not worth the dirt upon your shoes."

"Ladies with fortunes can afford to be eccentric." She smiled weakly. "The important thing is that I protect my son's title and inheritance. The aristocracy can tickle their turned-up noses with champagne in their drawing rooms and gossip to their hearts' content; I care not."

"Well said, my dear." Erik took her hand and kissed it. He paused as if he were going to say something, but then picked up his violin and bow and began scratching at the strings, frowning in thought. Soon, the random notes merged into a more tangible, familiar melody: _La Vie parisienne_ …

"_Paris_…" Christine breathed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I thought you abhorred operettas." He glanced up at her and pursed his lips, then turned back to the violin. She laughed, his pompous mockery of Offenbach's work delighting her soul, causing her entire being to prickle with the memories of musical exhibitions after gala performances, the vulgar flurry of activity outside _Le Café Riche_.

She had not gone to the cafés, of course; her teacher had forbidden it. Yet every night on her way home, she would wistfully watch the feathered, colorful crowds merrily streaming into the gilded dance halls, the _bal-musettes_ echoing through the rues, setting her feet to tapping. And then the next day's chitchat in the ballet dormitories—who had tasted absinthe or had made love to a count. Many of the _corps de ballet _had met sad fates at the dance halls. She, though, had been spared…

Christine gazed at Erik's fingers as they moved over the violin, his right hand still stiff from its injuries. Something akin to gratitude welled up within her—gratitude, and love for the man who considered her "too good" to frequent such places. Impulsively, she leaned forward and gently kissed her husband's cheek. The violin halted and he stared at her suspiciously, afraid that she was going to cry again.

"What is wrong?' he asked.

She shook her head and smiled. "Erik, we are going home."

ooOOoo

The planks of the steamer deck were teeming with passengers that balmy September morning, each clamoring for a place along the railing as the city of Marseille stretched her rocky arms around the travelers, welcoming them into her harbor. To the right lay the jagged archipelago and the isle of If, its ominous prison watching the ship as it passed. To the left was Marseille herself, dressed in red roofs and sandy spires, fringed with hundreds of gleaming fishing boats and swooping gulls. And in the middle of it all, towering above the city streets was the belfry of the Notre-Dame de la Garde and _la bonne mere_, gazing out to sea, blessing her sons and daughters as they wandered beneath her serene eyes.

"_Ma France, je t'ai ardemment désirée,_" Christine whispered. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the salty sea air, grasping the brim of her hat before it was carried away. A hand lightly pressed into the small of her back, guiding her along the deck.

"I had no idea you were homesick," said Erik, his mouth curling sardonically at her enthusiasm.

"I did not know how much I missed France until I saw it again."

He chuckled softly and adroitly maneuvered his fanciful wife through the crowd, careful not to lose sight of Mssrs. Khan and Nitot ahead of them at the debarkment ramp.

As the steamer pulled into port, swarms of people pressed against the narrow point-of-exit, anxious to shed their sea legs and find their families. Soon, their feet touched ground.

"Wait here," Erik asked and he shoved his way through the masses toward the daroga. Christine smiled, gazing around the harbor and drinking in the sights and sounds of home. She watched as passengers—Nadir and Norry included—busily directed porters bearing trunks to wagons waiting along the dock. And then Erik was once more at her side, taking her elbow and steering her out of the chaos, toward a brougham.

"I have told them to meet us at the railway station when they finish here. We will go ahead to check timetables, purchase passage to Chalon-sur-Saône, and make arrangements for the coffin."

Christine nodded, only half-aware of what he was saying. For at that moment, she felt a pair of eyes upon her, boring holes into her back and tingling her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, searching through the waves of people moving about the harbor. All of them looked normal, oblivious even. She shivered.

"What is it?" Erik asked.

"I…I think someone might be watching us."

"I am sure they are—they often do." He tapped his mask, lifting an eyebrow.

"It might be _them_, though."

"Yes, it might. It was expected, was it not?"

Christine sighed. "They could have at least given us the courtesy of an hour to peacefully enjoy our return."

"It is a pity not everyone can be as courteous as you, my angel." Erik handed Christine into the brougham then climbed in behind her, settling into the faded velvet seat. His yellow eyes swept over her nervous person.

"Are you ready to become a Comtesse again?" he asked quietly. She swallowed and straightened her shoulders, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

"Yes. I believe I am."

It was many hours later, when they were ensconced in a railway compartment and silently watching hills of green peppered by stone houses rolling past their windows, the _Chemins de Fer PLM_ carrying them closer and closer to Chagny, that the full enormity of her situation struck her.

"Erik?" she said hoarsely.

"Mmm?"

"Let's not go to the chateau tonight. We can lodge in Chalon-sur-Saône at an inn, and I will send a note to the house to give them fair warning."

He glanced up from his paper and looked at her curiously. "You wish to hold the storm at bay until tomorrow morning, I assume?"

"Exactly," she replied, well aware that the morning would come all too soon.

ooOOoo

In truth, it was closer to noon before the carriage finally rambled through the iron gates of _Le Château de Chagny_ and slowly wound along the cobblestone drive towards the great house. Erik studied the grand, chimney-laden roof and ivy-clad walls of his former rival's ancestral home with trepidation. He only half-listened as the old caretaker pointed out his various gardens and spoke of his relief that his roses had been tended to and topiaries pruned while he had been gone.

As they drew nearer to the house, he could see servants frantically scrambling about, aligning themselves in front of the entranceway for the arrival of their long-absent mistress. He sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable prying eyes and whispers.

The horses clattered to a halt and the door swung open; a footman stepped forward to assist the lady of the house. Erik noticed that Christine had smartly draped her wrap in such a way that, for the moment, only the most astute eye would notice her growing condition. Even if the household _had_ noticed, though, their curiosity wouldn't be held for long; for as soon as Erik set foot on Chagny ground, every red-rimmed eye was riveted to his masked face. Butler, cook, housemaids, chauffeur, grooms and undergardners…the palpable hostility made it obvious who they blamed for Papillon Nitot's death.

"Madame the Comtesse." A gentleman butler with fine gray hair and an immaculate suit stepped forward and bowed (not too low and not too high, but the proper degree), ushering the small party towards the door. "It is a pleasure to have you home again—I cannot tell you how anxious we have been for you and the young master. I trust your travels were enjoyable?"

"Well, I wouldn't…that is…it was pleasant enough, thank you for asking," Christine said, flustered, and then remembered herself. "Oh—may I present M. Khan and M. Reinard. You received my note yesterday? Of course you did."

"Yes. Congratulations on your recent marriage, Monsieur, Madame." He coolly nodded, careful not to let his dislike of the news shine through. Turning to Norris Nitot, the butler grasped his hand, his astringent features softening. "M. Nitot, I speak for all of the household when I say that we are truly saddened to hear of the loss of Papillon."

The old caretaker grunted. "Thank you. She cared 'bout all of you, this place. It's only right to bring her back here."

"Yes. My lady Comtesse mentioned that you wish to hold the funeral as soon as possible."

"You understand."

The butler nodded. "All of the preparations are underway. You need not trouble yourself."

Norry twisted his hat, blinking heavily as an unfamiliar wetness gathered in the corners of his eyes. Setting his jaw, he plopped the hat back on his head and turned to Christine. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be off to wait for the hearse when it comes from the town, then to the cottage." All quietly watched the desolate father take his leave in heartbreaking silence, at a loss to understand why they were preparing for such a funeral: a funeral of one of their own.

"Martin, will you go with him, please?" Christine murmured, nodding to one of the undergardners. With a start, Erik realized that the servant scrambling to catch up with old Norry was one of the very men who had accompanied Raoul de Chagny in his foray into the depths of the opera house. He hoped that Martin was a slow lad who would not put two and two together. Turning to his wife, he quickly guided her past the servants and through the doors.

"Rooms have been prepared for your guests, along with your suites and the nursery," said the butler, "although, I see that _jeune Maître_ has not accompanied you. He is well, I hope?" He glanced at the woman, his apprehension unmistakable.

"Thank you Aubert. He is very well, and will be with us within the month."

"I am glad to hear it, Madame," he said, relieved. He led them into a magnificent entrance hall, which seemed to traverse the length of the chateau. White gilding and cornflower walls dressed in rich tapestries and paintings…polished mahogany, gleaming bronze statuettes and glass vases, flowers, greenery everywhere…the Chagny family knew how to live in style.

"As you can see, Madame, all has been well-tended in your time away. One of your sisters, Madame Vasser, took up residence with us not long after the disappearance of M. David. Monsieur Vasser has personally been handling estate business ever since."

Christine bristled. "I…had not known they were here."

"Yes. Mme. Vasser wished to give you a chance to recover from your journey. However, she requests that you and your guests take tea with her this afternoon."

Erik and the daroga grimaced. Tea would be an interesting affair, if Christine's many anxious allusions to Madame Vasser, née Chagny—Raoul's stylish elder sister—were warranted.

The butler led them up a flight of stairs and through another hallway, nearly as grand as the first.

"Your guests may choose any of the rooms in the east wing; all have been aired and readied. Is there anything else, my lady?"

Christine shook her head and turned to her bedroom door.

"Ah!" cried the butler, "I nearly forgot. M. Quennell—your husband's former valet? He called earlier this morning to pay his respects and inquire after your health. I informed him that you have been abroad, but were expected to return shortly. He said to convey his best wishes to you, and he hopes to see you in Paris…I say, are you ill, Madame?"

In the course of his revelation, the woman's face had gone quite pale and her hand began to tremble; he thought for certain she would faint dead away. Erik quickly grasped her elbows and steered her through the door to a nearby chaise longue, leaving the stunned butler and Persian standing in the hallway. Unsure of what to do, the man reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a piece of paper.

"He left his card—"

"I will take that, Monsieur." Nadir snatched the visiting card from the servant's fingers, dismissing the man. The butler turned on his heels and fled the east wing, unsure of what had just happened, but certain that in all his years of service to the Chagny family, he had never met anyone as odd as Raoul de Chagny's opera dancer and her acquaintances.

Nadir slipped into the room, skimming over the scripted name upon the visiting card, the elaborate embossment surrounding the edges, and the handwritten note scrawled across the top:

" '_What is mine for what is yours. We shall meet in Paris._' What do you think he means by that?"

Erik glanced up from his wife, assured that her shock was waning. "I suppose he means to return our lives in exchange for that damned oath. The man must still believe that we know where it is."

"Which you do."

"Whether we do or not is no longer any of your concern, Daroga. You told me that you wanted no part in my 'games', remember?"

The Persian leveled hardened jade eyes upon the man, slowly crumpling the calling card in his fist. "Have it your way, _du stæm_," he said succinctly, tossed the paper on a small table, and left.

Christine sighed. "I wish you would not alienate him, Erik. We might wish for a friend in Paris."

"It is not _I_ who has done the alienating, Christine," he snapped. "Moreover, as you may recall, you are not going to Paris." As her face began to cloud, however, he instantly regretted the bite of his words. After all, was he not, five years ago, the one who had kissed the hem of her dress and begged for her to love him, to stay with him? He shook the thought away, reminding himself it was because of love that he was leaving her behind.

"Christine…"

"Very well," she said calmly. Crossing the room to the massive armoire in the corner, she pulled out several dresses—a green muslin and a black—spread them out upon her bed, and ran her fingers over the fine detail, examining the fashionable adjustments some kind seamstress had taken pains to make in her absence. She turned one of the dresses over to study the lacing; then, satisfied it would still fit her, turned back to her husband. "Return for me in an hour? I should be ready by then."

"Ready for what?" he asked, instantly wishing he hadn't.

"If you absolutely must leave me _again_, then I only ask that you suffer through tea with my former sister-in-law."

Erik inwardly groaned, the prospect of taking tea in a social capacity clashing with every misanthropic tendency he held dear. This, however, was more than tea; the lines of the battlefield had already been drawn and the prize named, so it seemed. An hour later, therefore, he returned, shaven and immaculate in a crisp shirt and suit acquired in Marseille, ready to brave the front.

The place was the elegant main salon of the chateau, which Christine teasingly referred to as the "Empire room." Erik could see why—its pure white walls, gold-framed mirrors, crystal chandelier, and rich blue rugs bedecked in fleurs-de-lis lent the room an ostentatious regality often found in the haute monde.

The prize, of course, was control of the Chagny fortune. Christine and her son, the sole Chagny heir, had been missing nearly a year. And as Erik studied Madame Vasser while she conducted hostess duties with the cool self-possession of a clever cat, he knew that she did not intend to give up the estate without a fight.

"Your Persian friend is not joining us?"

Christine shook her head. "No, Mme. Vasser; he is still rather exhausted from our travels."

The woman nodded, then glanced about the room, searching for some remark to fill the silence. "Tell me, Madame…I hardly know what to call you now, it has been so long," she said delicately.

"Madame Reinard will be fine."

"Very well, Madame Reinard." The elder Chagny's icy gaze swept over the young woman, her fine blue eyes snapping with disapproval. She was a beautiful woman, Madame Vasser—very much like her brothers in appearance—flaxen hair, high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. She also had Philippe's unapproachable temperament, so different from Raoul's. Frilled and bustled in rich plum muslin, she sat upon a gold velvet balloon-chair, the epitome of upper crust elegance.

Monsieur Vasser, on the other hand, was a short, roly-poly sort of man who could not have cared less for the soirées so beloved by the aristocracy, as long as a decent meal and good wine were provided. He was a reserved, unassuming man; it was rare that he uttered more than two words during the course of an evening. Never a lover of the delights Paris offered, he preferred the sport of the country estate to the city.

"As I was saying," continued Mme. Vasser, "it is probably best that your foreign friend is not here, because we have some things to discuss that might not be suitable in the presence of company." She turned to the young servant girl in the room and dismissed her, then with impeccable poise, poured tea. "Sugar or cream?" Both warily murmured "No, thank you," and accepted the china cups and saucers from her hands.

"My husband and I are quite at a loss to understand exactly what has happened. In all honesty, Madame, when you left so abruptly with your son nearly a year ago, I would have thought you meant to sever all ties with our family, if not for M. David's assurances otherwise. And then he went missing as well, so we just assumed…well…given his affection for you…" The woman cleared her throat, her cheeks and neck turning pink.

Erik sighed, growing rapidly impatient with the affair. "You obviously have questions for my wife, Mme. Vasser. Please ask them and be done with it." Her eyes flew to his, and for a brief moment, he saw a flicker of fear within them. _Ah, so she has guessed who I am,_ he thought with satisfaction and, deciding that intimidation might work where diplomacy would not, leaned forward and fixed his own threatening eyes upon her.

"Mme. Reinard," she said quickly, turning from pink to red, "where have you been for the past year?"

And thus ensued a gambit of questions, ranging from topics like the death of Papi Nitot, her son's location, to her marriage and subsequent 'condition'; all highly inappropriate parlour conversation, and all answered by Christine with such intentional vagueness that Mme. Vasser finally flung up her hands in frustration.

"Madame, may I be frank with you?"

Christine nodded.

"I never approved of your marriage to my brother—you know as much. However, your behavior after his death disgusts me. If you had disappeared for a year because you grieved his loss, then I might be more understanding. But to return with a new husband and child—yes, I noticed, though you did your best to hide it—when Raoul is not two years in his grave?" She shook her head. "If Philippe were alive…"

"Philippe is not alive, though, is he?" Erik hissed. Three pairs of eyes flew to the silent fury brewing in the sharp features of the masked man, stunned by the rage before them. Mme. Vasser opened her mouth, then closed it, afraid to say anything that might spark the powder keg. It was Christine, however, who diffused his anger. She gently placed a hand upon his, pleading with him for patience.

"Mme. Vasser," she said quietly, "I truly understand your sentiments, and know it is impossible for you to fathom my motives without having been in my place. There is nothing I can do, though, except to tell you that I have my son's best interest at heart. Whatever dislike you have for me, I only ask that it not be directed towards Jean-Paul. He is Raoul's son, as well."

Mme Vasser studied the young mother, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And what of the Comte's estate?"

"I shall be responsible for the management of my son's affairs. You and your husband, though, may remain at the chateau until Jean-Paul reaches his majority; then the decision will be his." Christine sighed. "This place is more your home than mine, Mme. Vasser. Raoul and I spent very little time here."

The Vassers stared at the small woman, stunned, as if she had suggested they cast off their clothing and dance about the room. Slowly, however, Raoul's sister managed to utter something akin to a 'thank you', the teacup and saucer rattling precariously in her hand.

"Madame, Monsieur, we thank you for your hospitality," Christine said finally, anxious to be gone. "We shan't trespass on your privacy any longer this afternoon." The four rose from their chairs and performed the perfunctory bows and curtsies, taking their leave from each other's company with a tremendous amount of relief. It wasn't until M. and Mme. Reinard were nearly out the door that M. Vasser uttered his first words of the entire afternoon.

"Be so good as to convey my regards to M. Quennell, if you should see him in Paris," he said softly, his plump mouth twisting into a knowing smile.

ooOOoo

It was a modest gathering of mourners who made their way from the august _Le Château de Chagny_ to the Nitot family burial plot, just behind the chateau's ancient stone chapel. The estate's vicar led the way through the late summer gardens, along _alleés _awash with roses and sunflowers. The casket itself followed, born on the shoulders of six lads who had worked with the maid; then old Norry, shuffling along between the former Comtesse de Chagny and her Persian guest. Monsieur and Madame Vasser were next, and behind the aristocrats were twenty or so bewildered servants, each dressed in their best black with crape mourning bands around their arms, crying for their lost friend.

There were two conspicuous absences from the funeral procession; the first was the little Comte, Jean-Paul de Chagny, whom the servants feared had met with a sinister fate in the year since he suddenly disappeared with his mother and the Nitots from the Paris home. The second was their mistress' new husband—an imposing man, whom many of the household believed was none other than the infamous Phantom of the Opera, whose name they had been forbidden to speak while Raoul de Chagny was still alive.

Nadir Khan ground his teeth in anger as he searched the crowd. _Erik could have at least had the decency to pay his last respects to her_, he thought fiercely. _After all that she gave him…_

_Papillon._ He found he could not think on her just now as he followed somberly in the wake of her coffin, lest he lose himself in the vicious howl that threatened to consume him. Instead, he turned his mind back to his friend, for it was easier to despise him than grieve for her.

Granted, if the masked man had attended, his presence would most certainly have caused a cumbersome unease that overshadowed the solemnity of the funeral. There had been a horrible row the previous night between the former Comtesse and Madame Vasser, and the subject had been none other than Christine's new husband. Apparently Erik had suddenly taken a potent dislike to Monsieur Vasser, and had all but attacked the man with his punjab lasso before Christine somehow managed to steer him from the room. What followed was a sparing match between Mme. Vasser and Mme. Reinard of such wrathful proportions, the servants would be discussing it for years to come.

_It is amazing that Madame Vasser did not awaken this morning to find a rope around her husband's throat,_ he pondered, shaking his head. He glanced at Christine, sobbing quietly under her long black mourning veil, then at Mme. Vasser, stony-faced and grasping her husband's arm. Apparently they had decided to let bygones be bygones, at least for today.

The mourners ambled into the cemetery and circled round the long hole where the soil had been dug away. Nadir's gaze swept over the sight before him. To the left of Papi's grave was a smaller, somewhat new mound of earth: her son, Perri. Next to that grave was Papi's mother, then grandparents, and so forth; generations of Nitots.

_I have come as close as I will ever come to sharing in her life,_ he thought, bowing his head in the knowledge. _I saved her life…then led her to her death. I was there when she died, and now I am here as she is placed in the ground._ He watched as the cypress coffin was lowered into the grave—lower, and lower, until he could no longer see it, see _her_. Somewhere to the right, Norry and Christine were weeping, leaning upon one another for support. There were tears all around him…tears, and wails, and sobs…the noise rose up in a morose cacophony, deafening and despairing. The Persian stared into the grave, longing to sink into the ground with her, beside her…

And then another sound ascended above the weeping and wailing—the voice of a single violin, seeming to rise up from the grave itself. The mourners fell silent as each listened to the music—rich and mournful, full of beauty, and misery, and hope, all wrapping around the other to create a requiem so exquisite, it made their souls ache. Nadir closed his eyes and allowed the _Libera Me_ to pull him away from the edge of the grave, where he had so perilously hovered moments before.

When the requiem ended and the vicar finished the rite of committal, all began to file back along the _alleés_, past the sunflowers and roses, as silently as they had come. Nadir scanned the mourners, tree line, the corners of the chapel, searching for the mysterious violinist. He caught the eye of Mme. Reinard, who gave a subtle nod to a large, moss-covered gravestone just strides away from the funeral site. Thanking the woman, he weaved through the mourners towards the looming cross to find his friend.

"Erik!" he called, catching him before he could escape.

The masked man paused, then turned around reluctantly, desirous to be gone from the cemetery. "Daroga," he replied.

Nadir stared at the man, not quite sure what to say. Erik sighed.

"I must be away to Paris, Nadir, before the funeral gathering at the chateau disperses. M. Vasser—that fat brother-in-law of Christine's—he is one of them."

"Ah. That would explain the attempt on his being."

"I am not made for estate life, Daroga. I would be lynched before the year is out if I remained here."

"And what of Christine? I assume you are not intending to leave her here with M. Vasser."

Erik smirked, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out two identical keys. "One is from Mme. Vasser's ring of keys; the second, from Aubert's. Christine wants to come to Paris with me, you see," he explained carefully. "However, I would rather you take her somewhere safe; this evening, preferably. She informed me before the funeral that the child was tiring her, so she planned to forgo the reception after the funeral to rest in her rooms. I promised I would see her before I left." Erik handed one of the keys to Nadir. "You will need this, I think."

"She will be furious with you," the Persian cautioned.

"She has been so, before." Before Nadir could reply, the man picked up his violin and fled the graveyard, leaving his friend to brood over how in the name of Allah he could convince an irate Christine to accompany him to someplace other than Paris.

ooOOoo

Erik slipped down the empty hallway of the east wing, towards Christine's boudoir. The day was still early, but late morning sunlight shining through the windows had warmed the hall considerably. No light escaped from beneath his wife's door, however. _The drapes are pulled, _he reasoned,_ which means she must be asleep_. Dropping his satchel in the doorway, he eased the door open and peered into the dimly-lit room, his eyes taking in the black mourning clothes tossed upon a chair, open armoire, shoes next to the bed. And in the bed itself was the slight figure of his wife, tucked beneath the blankets and sleeping peacefully, unaware of the deception that was about to be inflicted upon her.

_At least I have kept one of my promises,_ Erik mulled._ To see her before I left._

With one final glance at the young woman, he closed the door with the greatest of care, turned the key in the lock, and slipped it into his pocket. Grabbing his satchel, he swept down the set of servant stairs, through the bustling scullery, and out the back door to the stables. A frazzled young stable-hand met him at the entrance, stuttering incoherently as he led him to the readied horse and carriage.

"I…I tried to tell her no, Monsieur, that I would ready a carriage to take her to Chalon-sur-Saône, but she insisted. She being the Comtesse, you see—I could hardly tell her to take another carriage!"

Erik stared at the blubbering boy, then angrily pushed past him, flinging the coach door open. Seated within was Christine, neatly dressed in her travelling suit and hat, her own satchel tucked away beneath the seat. She waited patiently with her gloved hands folded in her lap, her pretty mouth set in grim determination; defiance, even.

"I told you that I was going to Paris with you," she finally said, seeing that words failed her husband.

"You…" he stammered, his pale face growing red, "you were supposed to be in your room. I _locked_ you in your room!"

Christine sighed. "Pillows under a blanket, very simple. Erik, I never even returned to my room—I _knew_ that you would try something like this!"

"Christine, for the last time—"

"Of all things, to leave me again; after I found you in Constantinople and paid a fortune to those guards just to let me see you, speak with you—"

"—you need to go back to the house, and Nadir will take you away—"

"Anywhere you go, remember?" she exclaimed, drowning out Erik's protests. "I swore before God to stay by your side in Jerusalem, and I take such a promise very literally. If you leave now, I will only follow you to Paris."

Erik folded his arms across his chest and glared at his wife, his gold eyes narrowing in such an intimidating manner, it would have made a weaker person quake with fear. Christine, however, held her ground and at last he relented.

"Once we reach the opera house, you are to go directly to Madame Giry's chambers and stay there, do you understand?" he hissed.

She nodded and slid over on the seat, making room for her husband as he climbed into the carriage. And then they were off, the chaise flying down the cobblestone drive and through the chateau's gates, carrying them to Chalon-sur-Saône's railway station. Erik leaned back in his seat and said nothing, grinding his teeth in anger at his own feebleness. After a long while, he felt the lightest touch upon his fingers; he glanced up and saw that Christine was watching him with a face full of worry.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He placed his hand over the top of hers, wondering how she had possibly maneuvered her way into the carriage bound for Paris.

"I love you," he replied, and turned back to the window, studying the golden wheat fields as they rolled by, trying not to speculate whether Nadir Khan had said the same words to Papillon Nitot, after he agreed to let her go with him to Istanbul.

_

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to everyone for the encouragement and reviews! I love reading them, and will try to answer any questions you might have. Two chapters and an epilogue to go, folks. The end is getting close… _

_Something will go up on the website for Ch. 37 and Ch. 38. Just not sure what, yet _:)

**Story Recommendation: _The Valentine's Day Morbidity Contest_**

Trying something a bit different, kiddos. This update is well-timed, as there is exactly one week left until the voting deadline for the Fourth Morbidity Contest, the Valentine's Day edition. There are some fabulous dark stories, scary stories, and unique stories, but you can decide which is which by participating and voting for your favorites.

The morbidity contests, hosted by The Scorpion, have produced a plethora of phantomy one-shot phiction, including my short stories, _Locked Door_ and _The Nacken's Song_. It's a wild and crazy time for phic writers, and gives them a chance to write something anonymously that might be completely different from what they normally write, as well as receive feedback.

The Scorpion asks only that you carefully read the rules before participating. The actual contest stories and rules can be found at: http/www(dot)angelfire(dot)com/scary/darkphiccontest/

The contest discussion can be found at: http/www(dot)phansonline(dot)net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t507

Enjoy!


	39. Beneath the Opera House

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Phantomy-Cookies for betaing! Hers and Le Chat Noir's own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen names "Chatastic" and "Phantomy-Cookies". _

_Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement. We're almost finished, folks! It has truly been a very busy several months, from house-hunting to grad school portfolios to business trips and vacations. But by writing a paragragh here, a scene there, this story is being completed._

**Beneath the Opera House**

"It was here."

"What was that?" asked Erik as he gazed out the brougham window as they left the Gare Saint-Lazare railway station behind them, studying the crowds of Parisians leisurely milling about the steaming streets of the Rue du Havre. A series of banners pasted to the wall of a corner shop caught his eye, advertising the beginning of the new opera season and the return of Delibes' _Lakmé_. He grimaced, knowing that his opera house would be awash with faux Indian silk screens and backdrops upon their return.

Christine turned to him.

"It was here, along the Rue du Havre, that I first came to the Populaire. I was such a naïve thing," she sighed, the telltale lines of her face furrowing wistfully. "I thought that being a part of an opera company simply meant wearing pretty costumes and performing for an audience. My first visit to the ballet foyer to celebrate the season was something of a revelation, I believe." Her cheeks flushed a bright pink, and Erik could all but see the bawdy dalliances she had witnessed.

"The _corps de ballet_ is not exactly known for its discreetness. I am amazed that your ballet mistress was able to accomplish anything at all."

Christine smiled. "As long as we were present for rehearsals and did not miss a single _penchée_, our personal lives were our own affair."

"Except for yours. Madame Giry watched you like an overbearing nanny," the man drawled.

"Madame Giry watched me because she feared you. Besides, she never interfered with your _nefarious_ plans—not until the very end, anyway." A shadow passed over the woman's blue eyes; the events of that tumultuous opera season dancing through her head were mirrored there. Erik could see what she saw—the notes, the shadows, secrets, murders, and music. Always his music.

"I am not that man anymore," Erik said softly.

Her glazed eyes slid up to his, half-seeing him now and half-seeing him then. "The past makes us what we are today—"

"—I am not that man anymore, Christine," he repeated, his hypnotic gold eyes firmly holding hers. "You have changed me."

"Any changing that took place was done by you alone, Erik. I was merely an instigator."

He tilted his head thoughtfully, mulling over her words. "Perhaps. However, you could not love a murderer—you told me so, yourself. I wanted your love; therefore, I changed."

"But life is not as clear-cut as that, is it? One simply cannot ignite or snuff out love—like a matchstick—simply because one wishes to. You were a murderer—perhaps you are one, yet. But I still loved you. And I will continue to love you, even if you kill again. It is my fate." She sighed and leaned back against the worn leather of the brougham, gazing at the grandiose opera house looming before them, to the right. "I am a child no more, Erik."

"A pity, then. There were many things I adored—loved—about the girl, Christine Daaé." Taking up her hand, he pressed it gently between his thin ones, his mouth curling in irony. "But now I love another—a woman with _nefarious plans_ of her own." He brushed cold, rough lips across her own icy skin, smiling as a shudder coursed through her tiny fingers. She had felt him again—the opera ghost—seeping in and permeating the quiet ambience of the coach, sucking the very warmth from her body as they drew nearer and nearer to the Populaire. And though he had just sworn to Christine that the Phantom of the Opera no longer existed, the ghost claimed him anyway, emerging from the depths of him and manifesting in the hideous gleam of his yellow eyes. Releasing her fingers, he knelt over the satchel at his feet and rifled through it, pulling out the few items he had procured from a hidden-away closet in the east wing of the _Chateau de Chagny_: a wide-brimmed felt hat, a pair of gloves, and a fine woolen opera cloak. Tugging the gloves over his fingers, he swept the cape over his shoulders, secured it, and lastly, smoothed his black hair down and placed the hat over it, deftly straightening the brim.

Christine blanched at the person before her—someone she'd thought never to see again. Her mouth opened and closed as words left her.

"What is the matter, my dear?" Erik leered. "You look as if you've seen—"

"Do not say it," she hastened. Her eyes swept over her husband, recognizing the actual articles of clothing for the first time. "You do realize that you have stolen Philippe's opera cloak and felt hat?"

"I very well couldn't take his top hat and cane, could I? Rather destroys the image of a sinister, shadowy figure."

"That isn't the point. If Mme. Vasser discovers them missing…why are you laughing?"

"Of all the things that concern me at this moment, the wrath of Mme. Vasser is the least of them."

The brougham turned off of the avenue onto the Rue Scribe and rattled past the portent façade of the _Opéra Populaire_, its torches causing the stone-white walls to glow gold upon the twilight skyline, like a massive, ornate music box nestled on a concrete pillow in the heart of Paris. Bright red banners and Tricolor several stories high billowed over friezes and columns along the front of the building, heralding the triumphant return of _Lakmé_ and La Carlotta—now in her eighth season with the opera. The coach slowed as it rounded the opera house towards the rotunda side. Fitting his satchel over his shoulder, Erik slid to the opposite side of the brougham and flung the door open before the footman could step forward and assist them. He leapt down, then turned back and held out a hand for Christine.

"Follow me," he commanded, and quickly swept his cloak around his person and moved along the railed ramps of the side entrance, slipping into the shadows of the petit rotunda alcoves.

"What about the Rue Scribe door?" she asked.

"The key was lost in Jerusalem, during that ridiculous chaos. Your sisters of mercy pilfered my pocket watch as well, by the by. Come, there is another way." He pushed through the heavy wooden door and allowed her to pass through, then pulled it shut again. Before Christine knew what had happened, she found herself being shoved into one of the dark recesses surrounding the foyer and still further back, past the heavy stones and into the wall. Panicking, her hands flew out in front of her as the dim square of light grew smaller and smaller. And then it was gone, leaving her in complete darkness.

"Erik," she cried, fretfully patting about the narrow tunnel until her fingers met wool. At last his cold, leather-clad fingers wrapped around hers and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do not let go of my hand," he said quietly. "It would be very easy for you to get lost within the walls and floors." He began to move forward, leading her down some sort of ramp that surely took them below the ground floor parquet.

"The walls and floors?"

"One of the opera house's many secrets—half of the structure is hollow. A rather nice feature for one who wishes to live as a ghost."

"Of course," Christine murmured. "Madame Giry said as much to me last year, when I first came to her for help. She told me that the opera house was designed specifically to hold secrets, and then took me through one of the walls…" As she reflected over the ballet mistress' words, she halted, suddenly struck by their meaning. "Erik, did you design the opera house?" There was a brief silence, and Christine could almost hear the man scowl.

"You did not think my home beyond Lake Averne simply appeared via the hand of nature, did you?" And then he continued in a softer vein. "I did not _design_ it, so to speak. I was, however, a chief contractor." They turned another corner, and began to wind up a set of stairs. Orchestral strains of the exotic _Lakmé_ floated from somewhere beyond the hidden hallway, signaling that rehearsal was still in progress despite the lateness of the hour. He continued:

"It was easy enough to adjust the dimensions of rooms in the blue prints; to thicken an alcove here, a column there. And when the project was halted during the Commune, no one was ever the wiser of my presence." He paused in the middle of the staircase and turned towards a conclave within the wall, tugging at some unseen mechanism. A narrow shaft of light permeated the damp gloom of their surroundings. Erik put his eye to the hole, then leaned back and grasped her hand.

"Look," he whispered. Christine stood on her toes to reach the peephole, blinking several times as her eyes adjusted to the sudden shift in light. She gazed about her, trying to ascertain where they were. And then she abruptly reeled back in astonishment—it was the familiar nave of the grand staircase, the stairs themselves just below her. The electric _torchères _were dimmed, but its marble balconies, bronze fixtures, and frescos still held court over the theatre doors in opulent splendor.

"I cannot believe it!" she breathed excitedly. "Are we…_behind _one of the bronze statues? We must be!"

"Within it, actually—the one to the left of the Ampitheatre."

"And these are her eyes?" Christine gestured to the openings.

"The folds of her skirt; she stands on a column, remember? Please lower your voice."

"So this is what it is like to be the opera ghost," she murmured in awe. "Always at the center of things, but never a part of it…"

"Something of the sort. Though the job of opera ghost is more daunting than this little jaunt through the main floor."

"I do not doubt it."

Erik's gold eyes glistened in amusement from beneath his felt hat, and for a moment it seemed to Christine as if they glowed yellow. And then he turned away from her and once more moved up the path, into the walls. A sharp turn to the left, then another turn, the secret hallway narrowing until they had to turn sideways to continue on. Christine rested a hand protectively over her midsection.

_In two more months,_ she reflected_, I will not be able to navigate through such a narrow path_. She began to say as much to Erik, but he waved her silent, gesturing to the wall.

Christine strained to listen…

"_Ah! Glissons en suivant! Le courant fuyant!"_

"You could sing _Lakmé_ and make the audience weep," Erik murmured caustically, as if he were actually scrutinizing the effort it would take to trigger trapdoors in the stage floor and fell La Carlotta before opening night.

"_Dans l'onde frémisan—"_

"No, no, no, Signora!" she heard M. Reyer cry. "You cannot over-sing the phrase, or you will obscure Mlle. Berrars' harmony. You _must_ remember that this is a duet!" Christine smiled gently at the despairing voice of the _repetiteur_; she could all but see his round eyes bulging from his frazzled face.

"If Mad-e-moiselle Berrars cannot carry her own part," snipped the coloratura, pointedly rolling the penultimate "rr"s of the abused woman's name, "then she must go! It is unacceptable to share the stage with such a…a…"

"Signora, my _diva_, we cannot find another Mallika, as we open in three days. It is nearly eight o'clock, and some of us—"

"You think I am not tired? You think my voice is not _weary_ from these endless rehearsals? It is not my fault that this dreadful excuse for a soubrette cannot sing!"

The beleaguered man sighed. "From '_glissons en suivant'_, if you please. Musicians: two measures introduction." The orchestra began the soft strains of "The Flower Duet," their poorly-tuned instruments and weakly-supported tones suggesting that they had long ago surpassed their rehearsal limits for the day, and would like nothing better than to toss bows and reeds aside for the feather-clad _belles_ at the lively _Le Café Riche_.

As Christine drew closer, she could hear the incongruous tap-tap-tapping of Madame Giry's cane from the back of the stage, her firm instructions to the _corps de ballet_ nearly drowned out by the soaring notes of Lakmé and Mallika.

"Ah. We have found your ballet instructor," Erik whispered at her ear. "Keep to the shadows, and wait for _her_ to see _you_—not the other way around. Go directly to her chambers and I will return for you there." He brushed his cool lips to her cheek and before she could protest, thrust her into the open once again, the wall sliding shut behind her. Not quite sure what to do with herself, she melted into the shelter of an unused scenery flat depicting some generic scene of pastoral bliss and stayed there, watching, waiting to catch the ballet mistress' stern eye.

Christine's gaze fell upon the young ballet corps. Save for a matured Meg Giry and Jammes, not a single face was familiar to her; most of her peers had either retired, married, or continued on to other opera houses. She sighed as she watched them leap and float across the stage in a flurry of graceful limbs and lace, a twinge of nostalgia constricting her heart and throat. Meg, now prima ballerina, pirouetted onstage with the ease of a weightless bird, leading her flock of nightingales through each position as her mother's cane kept time. And then the tap-tap-tapping faltered. Madame Giry started in surprise, her dark eyes darting about the stage as if looking for someone. She paused, a hand pressed over her heart. Conscious of sixteen pairs of eyes upon her, she hurriedly scolded the corps for stopping and motioned for them to continue through their positions. Christine sucked in her breath; the ballet mistress was walking towards her.

"Christine Daaé, are you here?" the older woman whispered.

"Yes."

Madame Giry exhaled in relief. "_Mon Dieu_! For a moment, I thought I was mad—hearing _him_ again, in my ear, telling me I was to find you here in the shadows. He…you… have been gone so long, I quite despaired you would ever return."

Overwhelmed, Christine clasped the woman's hands in gratitude, quite unsettling the ballet mistress. "Oh Madame Giry, you need not have despaired! I am alive, my son is alive, and it is all because of Erik—you told him to go to London, I know it, and so many things have happened since. I hardly know where to begin…"

Madame Giry extracted her hands from Christine's grasp and motioned for the girl to follow her further backstage. She studied the girl carefully— her lightly-browned skin, faint crinkles in the corners of her mouth, marked determination in her blue eyes, growing figure—not quite believing the year's changes evoked in the woman before her.

"Perhaps," she said delicately, "you could begin by telling me about the most obvious 'happening' since you left Paris."

Christine's cheeks reddened. She lifted her left hand, showing the ballet mistress the plain gold ring that rested there.

"All is well in that respect, Madame Giry, I assure you."

"I thought as much," she sighed. "When you left for London and the 'opera ghost' vanished not long after, I was worried it would only be a matter of time. Others thought you to be dead—the managers included—but Meg and I knew otherwise. We knew whom you were with and the lengths he would go to shield you, the things he is capable of. We thought—hoped—you would return some day."

"I cannot say that life has been easy since we left Paris, but I cannot complain of idleness, either." Her eyes shining, Christine told Madame Giry of the things they had seen: the streets of London; the green of the Mediterranean Sea; the deserts of the Middle East they had crossed in midnight flight; the Bohemian spires and the Turkish minarets. She told her of the strange music she had heard in Jerusalem, and how she and Erik had married in a tiny Franciscan monastery chapel (though she remained silent about deceiving the holy sisters and the discovery of their subterranean cardos; she preferred to keep these memories to herself, to think upon in quiet delight).

Madame Giry studied the gambit of emotions playing across the young woman's features, her own face firmly rooted in long-practiced stoicism. She listened to her former pupil's tale, all-the-while steering her beyond the alertness of her rehearsing ballet corps, past the freshly painted sets and screens and through a darkened back hallway, up a set of stairs towards the grand tier boxes.

It wasn't until Christine finished her story that she glanced about and saw where the ballet mistress had led her. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. The door to Box Five, with its brass plate gleaming in the semi-darkness of the red-curtained tier, loomed before her as a blatant token of all that had passed in the _Opéra Populaire_. The opera ghost's haunting ground, once sacred and sacrilegious; now, just another handful of francs in the pockets of Mssrs. Firmin and Andre.

"Madame, why are we here?" she questioned.

"A reminder," Mme. Giry said tersely. "Never forget who he is—what he is—the man you have married. Having his protection is one thing; marriage, entirely another. Perhaps being away from Paris…away from the opera, has made you forget the lies, the deceit, the murders…"

"I have not forgotten. Things have changed, Madame." Christine's eyes softened with a light that shone not so much with resignation, but acceptance. "Erik will always have his black dispositions and shadows. He will always have his masks." She fixed her gaze on her former guardian. "The change is this: I understand them now. I love him in spite of his faults—_because_ of his faults. He is _trying _to be a better person, Madame, so hard, but it takes _time_. I can wait for him, if he keeps trying."

"But think of your children, Christine. Surely Erik cannot be a good father to them, with such a disposition—"

Christine shook her head. "He may not have the makings or the temperament to be a father, but my children will be loved."

The ballet mistress sighed and held her hands out in acquiescence. "Childish naivety and foolhardiness have proven time and again to be wretched combinations, Christine Daaé. But I can see you will not be moved." Taking a small key from the clanking ring at her waist, she placed it in the lock and turned it, the ominous click chilling Christine a great deal more than it ought to.

"Would you like to see the box again?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Madame Giry pushed back the velvet red curtain between the door and the box, allowing her to pass through. She had only been inside the box on a few occasions, and then rather hurriedly for fear of confronting her estranged teacher. But the box was much as it always was, with its draperies and gilded furniture. Even the small footstool was still there, tucked away in a corner and awaiting the ankles of some elderly aristocrat with a penchant for Gounod. Christine leaned against the pillar and exhaled, lost in the nostalgia permeating the air.

"They have been here, Christine," said the ballet mistress. "Many times."

"Who?"

"Do you really need to ask? That man and his watchers—they have been waiting for you to return."

"Yes, I know. They are aware of our coming to Paris. It won't be long..."

Madame Giry crossed to the balcony and peered down onto the stage, watching her young dancers as they practiced the ballet sequence.

"I see all that goes on in the opera house; I have seen them in the halls, the foyers and parlors, even in the cellars, combing the building from top to bottom for several months now—" Christine's head came up abruptly, and at once the reverie was broken.

"The cellars? They have been in the _fourth_ cellar, as well? I thought Erik had blocked it."

"They have been there many times. I believe they met with a trap door more than once, and had trouble slinking away without drawing attention. The managers thought them to be common vagrants looking for an escape from the summer heat, but I knew better."

A cold, dreadful fear stirred deep within Christine as she comprehended the woman's words. It rapidly brewed into a panic that sent her tumbling through the curtains and flying for the door.

"Erik is in the fourth cellar, Madame Giry!" she called over her shoulder as she tore down the grand tier hallway, towards the stairs. "If they were to happen upon him, there would be no one there, no one to help! I must warn him—is the mirror in my old dressing room still there?"

It was then, just as she was rounding the corner of the landing that she stumbled headlong into M. Firmin at the top of the stairs, blocking her way. The man, immensely startled, grasped the banister with one hand and her elbow with the other, steadying them both before they tumbled down the flight of stairs. Straightening his fine silk waistcoat, he stared at her for a full minute, gape-mouthed and stuttering, unable to string two words together. His two companions came up the stairs behind him: M. Andre, suddenly as silent as his friend, and another gentleman whose presence gripped Christine with icy fingers of terror that rooted her to the floor.

The other man was Michel David, the Marquis de Bourges: Aristocrat, eldest brother of Monsieur Henri David, and faithful brother of the _Fraternité_. And he was staring at her with the same mix of shocked disbelief as the others.

"Good God!" managed Firmin at last, still clinging to her elbow and slowly finding verbal footing. "My lady Comtesse! We thought—or had heard—that you vanished. Some even believed you were…but never mind about that. How utterly fortuitous! How _splendid_ that you have returned!"

"Your continued patronage has been wondrously beneficial to the _Opéra Populaire_," exclaimed M. Andre, "and we have long desired to tell you as much. Why, just last season we were able to build a detailed replica of King Herod's throne room, complete with—"

"Forgive my friend's rudeness," interrupted M. Firmin, earning a scowl from his counterpart. "Do you know the Marquis de Bourges? Of course you do! He has recently offered his patronage to the Populaire—"

"—most generously, we might add—"

"—and anticipates becoming an essential part of our little company for years to come, much in the way your own distinguished family—"

"Excuse me," Christine said abruptly. Mustering her limbs to life again, she carefully extracted her elbow from the clammy grasp of M. Firmin, then spun around and flew down the hallway, leaving them astonished in her wake.

"Comtesse, wait! I must speak with you!" she heard the Marquis de Bourges call after her as she ran around the corner and towards the safety of Box Five, the only option left to her. Madame Giry was just locking the heavy door when Christine pushed her hands aside and flung it open.

"Lock it behind me!" she cried to the startled madam.

"Christine Daaé, what in heaven's name—"

"Lock it, please, and do not let anyone in!"

Speechless, Madame Giry did as she was commanded. Christine heard the lock click into place just as a bedlam of male voices reached Box Five. She knew she hadn't much time before Michel David caught up with her. Pushing past the curtain into the box, she frantically patted along the walls, looking for some sort of trigger—a hidden knob, or lever, or cord—to reveal a secret passageway.

"What is the meaning of this? I say, open this door at once, Madame Giry!"

"Comtesse de Chagny, are you well? Have we offended in some way?"

_Please God, let there be something…there **must** be, _she silently prayed. Her searching fingers reached the ornate column tucked into the left side of the wall and she heard a soft clicking sound. Sobbing in relief, she stood back as the column slid away to reveal a corkscrew staircase, dark and narrow, winding down into oblivion.

Christine hesitated. She had never been in this part of the labyrinth before—without a lantern or a torch, no less—and there were many frightening things beneath the opera house besides a ghost.

"Christine!" called the Marquis. "You needn't be afraid of me; there is something I must tell you!"

Her mind was made up. She ventured into the secret path, the stairwell beginning to grow dimmer and dimmer as light faded to complete blackness. The door slid shut behind her, closing her off from Box Five, Madame Giry, and the world of light.

ooOOoo

Christine did not immediately throw herself into the perils of the opera cellars, but waited until she was absolutely certain that there was no other means of escape but into the churning shadows below.

"What the devil—" came the Marquis' cry of surprise from within the box, followed by M. Andre's "a door! All of this time, there must have been a secret door!" It would not be long before they found it.

Taking a deep breath and offering up another prayer to the divine, she took a tentative step into the passageway, then another, clutching at the chilly stone wall for support. Down, down she stumbled blindly, fingernails scraping ahead of her along the cylinder at the middle of the staircase, one step after the other. The air gradually took on the well-known musty stench that clung so diligently to Erik, as if it had eternally permeated his skin—dankness, death—a smell that at once twisted her insides and at the same time, strangely, comforted her with its familiarity.

After fifteen long minutes of circling into nothingness, the path began to straighten. Christine paused and struggled to gauge her surroundings.

_I would be two cellars below the stage by now, which is somewhere to my left. And that is the direction in which the path sloped downward…_

Unless she had become disoriented in the staircase, and was now heading towards the bone-strewn Communard roads…

Tugging the brim of her rather outdated trimmed Parisian hat down in a show of determination, she turned left.

"_Merde_," she breathed, the soft word echoing in the tunnel. She sniffed cynically. Jean-Paul was not the only one to have picked up one of Erik's bad habits.

Jean-Paul. As she wandered through the darkness, stripped of all sight, her mind conjured images of the one precious person who occupied her thoughts relentlessly. It had been nearly four months since she had seen her little boy, held him in her arms. He had celebrated his third birthday with strangers, while she scoured the streets of Constantinople in search of her husband. What would he look like when she saw him again, her growing child? The past year had brought such changes in his appearance: he would be at least a hand taller, his solemn blue eyes larger and more intelligent in his three-year-old face. His questions would consist not only of _Why?_ but also _How?_, _Where?_, and _Show me_.

Christine's heart ached. She pressed her grimy fingers to her cheeks and wiped away several escaped tears, leaving a streak of dirt in their place.

_I have not been the best of mothers,_ she thought regretfully, _but when I see you again, my dearest son, I will show you all that is in my heart at this very moment._

The journey into the cellars was surprisingly uneventful most of the way, as she clung judiciously to the slippery stone walls, not daring to stray from their sturdiness. It wasn't until she was stumbling along somewhere in the vicinity of the second or perhaps even third cellar that her musings of remorse were shaken. Her little booted feet were shuffling along the paving when a small, soft body brushed along her silken ankle. Christine clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream in her throat and kicked out at the rodent, sending it scurrying away with an indignant squeak. But relief was not hers; for as soon as the first rat was gone, there was a second, then a third, then dozens of little squeaks and hisses, their claws clicking upon the rocky labyrinth with a tapping that grew maddeningly louder by the second.

"_Do not move…"_ echoed an otherworldly voice all around her.

Her fingers tightened over her mouth, her nails creating half-moons in her cheeks as she cried and sobbed into her hand. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of rats flooded around her, running and leaping down the path; she could hear them, feel them moving like a swift current towards some unknown opening.

"_Let me pass! My rats…my rats…"_

Christine squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, terrified to open them and face the red, devilish face she knew would be hovering in the path in front of her, moving closer…

"_Do not follow—the rats!"_

The Rat-catcher.

How many times had Erik told her of the half-men, half-creatures who roamed the underground beneath the opera house? How often had he warned her never to journey into the labyrinth alone, lest she meet with one of these horrific ghouls? And now a dim, orangeish glow was there beyond her eyelids, growing stronger, brighter—warming her face as if it were staring, breathing right in front of her…

Her hand fell away from her mouth and she screamed and screamed, her panicked cries resounding through the labyrinth. The rats screamed with her, their frightened squeaks and squeals rising to a deafening crescendo, then waning as they swept past her feet. And then the wretched creatures trickled away as quickly as they had appeared, rushing further up the tunnel and into the black void until there was nothing. No sound but her rapid, raspy breathing.

Cautiously, she opened one eye, then two. The Rat-catcher was gone as well, and she was once again immersed in safe, beautiful darkness. She shakily untangled her limbs from the wall and gathered her skirts in her fists. Trudging forward, she rounded the corner that had so thoroughly hid the Rat-catcher from her and moved on, her trembling fingers once again tracing their way along the wall. She had survived, she told herself, and she would find her way through the maze, even if she met that flaming head a dozen times over.

It wasn't long before a second light began to suffuse the path with pale, yellow glow. This light, however, was not accompanied by thousands of squeaking rodents, but by a voice, just as frantic, calling out to her.

"Christine! Christine, where are you?"

"Erik!" she called out in relief, pulling away from the wall completely and hurrying towards the light. A dark figure behind the lantern's circle rushed towards her, pulling her into in an embrace as she flung herself against his cloaked body.

"You…were screaming. I ran…" he managed between labored breaths. "What the devil happened?"

"The Rat-catcher. I have never met him before." She gave him a weak smile. "He is not the pleasantest of people to run into beneath the opera house."

Erik sighed and kissed her forehead, then pulled back to study her. Face unreadable, he slid a pristine gloved hand beneath his coat and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief, and gently wiped the smudge of dirt from her face.

"How you found yourself in this labyrinth when I specifically told you _not_ to follow me, I simply cannot imagine. But it doesn't matter just now; I am taking you right back up to the surface."

"The Marquis de Bourges is here, Erik."

"What was that?"

"Michel David—he is above-ground with the managers, and he ran after me. I didn't have any other choice but to go into the cellars." Christine sniffed bitterly. "He is the _new opera patron_, of all things! What is the likelihood of that?"

"Too likely. I rather think his patronage is not a coincidence."

"Madame Giry told me that there have been men in and out of your cellars all summer long. They have been waiting for us, Erik—not only watching for our return to Paris, but in the _Opéra Populaire_ itself!" A chill coursed down her back and she shuddered, wrapping her arms more tightly about her.

"That summer dress isn't the most suitable for the underground," he said, pulling the cape from his shoulders and dropping it over hers. She nodded in thanks and folded herself into its warmth. Erik's eyes then narrowed thoughtfully.

"I had to dispense of one of their Russian henchmen in the torture chamber before I left for London. However, I thought I had locked and chained all of the entrances." Realization suddenly spread over his face and he grunted in self-disgust. "The Rue Scribe door! Apparently your holy sisters in Jerusalem did not make off with my key after all. How _utterly_ careless of me."

Christine shook her head. "There is nothing you can do about it. I will just have to go with you to the fourth cellar."

"You are already in the fourth cellar, my dear; however, the only place you are going is back to the surface. Come, I will take you a different way." He reached for her hand but she yanked it away.

"No, absolutely not! No more being tucked away while you run headlong into danger, Erik. There isn't time—we have to go for the oath now, or they will find us out—"

"And this suggestion of yours isn't 'running into danger'? Good God, it's amazing that that boy Chagny was able to leave your presence and go to Prague at all, what with all your tears and pleadings."

"That is not the same!"

Erik made a grab for her hand again and this time claimed it. "I am _tired_ of your headstrong, foolish persistence, Christine! You may make demands of me, but do not challenge me; you will lose every time, I assure you."

"If the Reinards would be so good as to finish their conversation," drawled a high, arrogant voice somewhere beyond them in the darkness, "they might realize that they have already been found out, and the basis of their disagreement is pointless."

Christine's blood turned to ice at the sound of the familiar, hated voice. Frozen, she could only watch as a second lantern's light flared up, illuminating its owner's sneering face, slick gray hair, and tight lips. His eyes were hidden behind twin flames as the lantern's reflection flickered and danced in his spectacles, leaving his face sadistically emotionless. Instead of the austere, tailored clothing he normally donned, he was wrapped from head to toe in some sort of shroud, its brown folds draped about him like the garments of a monk. One pale hand reached out from beneath the shroud, its spindly fingers wrapped around the handle of a revolver.

A quiet "click" echoed through the tunnel.

"As you both seem to have been rendered speechless, I shall do the talking. If you please, do not speak unless I ask you to do so. Is that understood?"

Christine looked at Erik beseechingly. His eyes, however, were fixed frostily upon the man before them.

"Good," said Mas. "Place your hands behind your back where I can see them, both of you. Now, if you will kindly step this way—Ah ah! I will take that rope, Monsieur." He pointed the muzzle at Erik's chest just as his hand went to his waist for the Punjab lasso. They leered at each other for a long moment, until Erik finally lifted his hands away from the rope.

"Be my guest, Monsieur."

Mas took the lasso and flung it into the dark tunnel behind them, then waved them on with the pistol.

Christine fell into stride beside Erik, Mas Quennell only feet behind her. Her insides twisting with fear, she clutched at the cloak around her shoulders, pulling it tightly to her. Unbeknownst to her captor, she too had a thin length of rope coiled and tucked just beneath the elegant drape of her bustle, a hidden viper ready to strike. And as Erik was now stripped of his weapon, she must be the one to act. Biting her lower lip, she studied the stone floor as it passed beneath her feet, waiting for Mas to reveal some weakness.

"Your situation seems to have improved since last we met, Monsieur," commented Mas, as if they were on their way to luncheon. "You were quite the monster in the Rumeli Hisari—something of a horror to behold." Christine felt the chill of his eyes upon her neck. "Yes, your current circumstances are certainly impressive; quite a change from the pathetic creature I found in Istanbul. You may speak, Monsieur le Phantom." He paused, waiting for his words to hit their mark. There was no answer. "I heard of your magnificent escape from the prison fortress," he continued, "and how your _wife_—imagine that!—found you there." Once again, his irascible gaze was fixed upon her.

"You, Comtesse de Chagny, have given me more trouble than I ever anticipated from such a pitiable aristocratic flower. You slipped away from my carriage in Paris, then immediately fled to London. And again, you somehow survived our _meeting_, disappearing for several months to Jerusalem, of all places! We interrogated nearly all of the dock workers from the Thames to Brighton to piece together your location, journeyed _all_ the way to Palestine, and spent tiresome hours negotiating with those ridiculous Turks, only to find that, _once again_, you had left the city!"

"I find it peculiar that you went to such lengths to unearth a 'pitiable aristocratic flower', as you put it," Erik said forcefully, immediately drawing Mas' attention away from Christine. "She was worlds away from Paris; how could she possibly have been a threat to you?" His eyes quickly darted to hers, and she realized that he knew she had the lasso. Her heart began to race; if only he could distract Mas a bit longer, rattle his composure.

Mas sighed in annoyance. "I did not give you permission to speak, Monsieur; however, you have posed the very question I have asked myself repeatedly. After speaking with you in London, Madame, I truly believed that you did not have the oath of _Fraternité_, nor could you tell me where it was. Therefore, I was resolved to dispense of you. But then I was forced to leave before I could complete my task. Since that night in London, I must admit that I have felt an unquenchable desire to finish what I had started."

Mas reached out one long finger to her cheek as if to caress it, but hastily withdrew it.

"Your face has tormented me incessantly; the very idea that a mere woman could escape from _me_, the very blood of Robespierre! I _had_ to kill you, to keep you from plaguing me. So, in truth, my resolve was nothing but a personal vendetta. That is, until I learned you had returned to France."

Christine dared a glance over her shoulder at the madman behind her, and was startled to find that his face was no longer blank of expression, but gleaming with an insane mixture of irritation and, incredibly, what could only be called ardor. Next to her, Erik was bristling with rage.

"There I was," Mas continued, "safely ensconced in a small boarding house in Chalon-sur-Saône—courtesy of your brother-in-law Vasser, but that is a different matter—wasting away from idleness, when I discovered that not only had you returned, but were staying at the neighboring estate! So I ask you, what else would bring you back to the lion's den, but the oath? Do not try to deny it, Madame; you said as much minutes ago. I must admit, the fact that you were planning to journey on to Paris was more of a fortunate guess on my part."

Mas paused in his pompous rambling to ascertain their surroundings.

"Ah! Here we are, Monsieur—the shore of your underground lake."

Their armed captor gestured in either direction of Lake Averne. "Since exploring this fascinating network of roads and tunnels, I have long held the suspicion that the oath might be here, somewhere. Raoul de Chagny was much cleverer than I gave him credit for. Now, Phantom, you will take me to the oath."

Erik threw back his head and laughed, the sound bitter upon her ears. "My dear M. Quennell, do you truly expect me to believe you will let us live after we show you where that boy's oath is? I am no fool, sir."

Mas' lips twisted cruelly.

"I never said I would let you go." Setting his lantern down, he reached beneath his brown shroud and pulled out a soft, white object. A child's toy.

"No," Christine breathed.

It was her son's "Cesar" horse—the one object of affection that never left his side. She stared at the small plush toy in Mas Quennell's bony hand, its coat now dirtier than the last time she had seen it clutched in Jean-Paul's tiny arms. The ground began to churn beneath her, its sharp stones swimming up to engulf her and rip her to pieces. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees.

"You are lying," she heard Erik hiss somewhere above her, followed by Mas' cool voice as he ignored Erik.

"Prague is a beautiful city, is it not? Although, your accommodations at the old inn in the Josefov district were not befitting a Parisian countess." She shook her head in disbelief.

"They left Prague when I did. You would never have been able to find them."

"Are you really willing to take such a gamble with your son's life, Madame? Perhaps you did not get my note: _What is mine for what is yours._ Those are my terms. You show me where the oath of _Fraternité_ is, and I allow the young Comte de Chagny to live."

Christine pressed her fist to her mouth and sobbed in fury. Only once had she felt so helpless, so powerless to change the tide and save someone she loved. And now she was once again beneath the opera house, once again being forced to make a choice in which there would be no prevailing. She glared up at the cruel tyrant towering over her, the heartless man who was threatening to take away that which she loved best. In Jerusalem, she had thought she couldn't possibly hate Mas as much as she did then. She was wrong.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, she took several wretched breaths, trying to fight back the putrid bile rising up her throat. Her fingers smoothed over the rope carefully tucked away under her cloak, and like a brilliant beacon, she remembered what she possessed. Grabbing the lasso, she furiously whipped it from her waist with an angry cry, just as a gunshot resounded through the cavern. A stinging pain shot through her arm and she gasped, stunned into silence.

"Drop your weapon, Madame, or the next time I shall shoot you clean through and not hesitate for a moment." Christine looked up from her grazed arm to find the muzzle of Mas' revolver just inches from her face. With a trembling hand, she grudgingly relinquished the punjab lasso to him and he snatched it away, tossing it into the darkness.

Pistol still poised next to her temple, Mas studied her.

"Amazing," he said quietly. "It is a pity I will eventually have to dispense of you. You could have been a very formidable, useful sort of person to our cause if _only_ you had been able to see the greater events at work. Imagine the things we could have accomplished, Christine."

"You may as well call your men out of the labyrinth," Erik said evenly.

Until now, Erik had remained silently undetached, even when the revolver had been fired. Christine wasn't sure whether he hadn't wanted to provoke Mas into killing her, or whether he was simply watching and waiting; but now that she was able to truly see him, to see the frightful mask that had fallen across his features as he icily spoke, she perceived something more cruel, more intelligent churning in his cold, flinty eyes.

Their captor saw it too and, for a brief moment, he faltered, caught up in the man's death-filled gaze. But then he recalled himself and sneered, his thin lips all but disappearing as they stretched across his face.

"You truly do see everything in the opera house, just as I was told. Indeed, I have arranged for a sort of welcoming party to greet you; although I was saving it for later. But no matter." Stepping back from his captives, he called out, "Brothers! You may join us."

One by one, lantern lights began to flare up around the cavern, cutting through the shadows and revealing the robed figures behind them. Christine began to count them: at least a dozen along the stone walls, and even more spilling out from within the labyrinth. More and more emerged from the tunnels and filed along the shoreline until they circled Erik and her at least twice over. Her eyes widened; nearly fifty men in all, each one faceless and robed, their true identities concealed from her.

Slowly, Mas raised his monk's hood over his head and shadowed his face, save for the flickering light in his oval spectacles.

"Madame, Monsieur: may I present to you my _Fraternité_?"


	40. Barrels! Barrels!

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir and Phantomy-Cookies for betaing! Their own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen names "Chatastic" and "Phantomy-Cookies".. _

_Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement, readers. You are the most amazing bunch!_

**

* * *

Barrels! Barrels! **

Christine clutched Jean-Paul's toy horse to her, dreading each step.

Hope. _For those who have it, it is a blessed thing. For those who do not, it is a curse._

Erik's words rang in the recesses of her mind as they trudged along the shore of his underground lake in a long, unholy processional of shrouded Frenchmen. Yet, no matter how hard Christine tried to sustain one single shred of hope, reason said that she was walking to her death. Trying to push the burning pain in her arm from her mind, she studied the fluent stride of the tall man in front of her—the way he walked effortlessly along the shoreline, his bony shoulder blades sliding back and forth beneath his fine black coat—ever at ease in his cellars. Christine marveled at his cool confidence, even while her own wall of sanity crumbled about her.

All hope that was left within her rested upon her angel, a man who could be as cunning as a god and as broken as a wretch. Erik was both, but she had no doubt which was in possession of him right now.

He halted. Circling one of the paving stones, he stomped on it. A hollow thud echoed through the cavern. Fixing his cold eyes upon Mas Quennell, he pointed to the ground.

"Here. The trigger appears to be broken."

"If this is a trick, I can assure you that I have no qualms about stripping you of that mask and drowning you in your lake," said Mas impatiently over the soft din of excited conversation behind him, gesturing to the floor with his revolver.

Erik sighed and slid his arms from his coat, folded it in half, and handed it to Christine.

"I will need something to open it with, I am afraid."

"Give you a weapon? Really, Monsieur." Mas crooked a finger and several of the brothers stepped forward. "Pry it up," he commanded.

The men immediately set to work upon the heavy paving stones, digging the blades of their knives around and under them until they were able to work the hidden trapdoor loose. Heaving it open, they held their lanterns over the opening, excitedly peering into the pit.

"Something is down there!" one of them exclaimed. "It looks like a box."

Mas' lips twisted in pleasure. "Fetch it."

The man nodded and crouched next to the pit, carefully lowering himself below the floor to claim the deed box. Several of the brothers heaved him out again. He shook the dirt and dust from his robes and set about untangling the box from the rope that had been used to lower it into the pit. With alacrity, he swept over to his leader and handed him the metal box.

Mas hurriedly snatched the box from his hands and tried to open the latch. Hissing in frustration, he grabbed the man's knife and worked it under the lid, popping it open.

Christine's eyes were not on the box, however. Her gaze was riveted to the thin, dusty rope that lay coiled like a snake at the edge of the pit. Erik _had_ to have seen it too. She glanced up at him, searching for something in his eyes to reassure her. They glistened back at her, cagey and arrogant, seeming to proclaim that he had already bested his enemy.

_Fifty men._ She closed her eyes and breathed, willing her pounding heart to slow. _I pray that he knows what he is doing. _

"This is it," exclaimed Mas, drawing all eyes back to him. He was studying the oath in his hands, carefully turning the antiqued, delicate pages as if they would crumble in his fingers. He closed the book and glanced up at Christine and Erik, his face eerily void of emotion.

"Get rid of them."

Christine's heart raced again. Wild eyes darted back and forth between the rope and Mas, struggling with what to do. Several of the cloaked _Fraternité_ advanced towards her, their steps slow and unsure. She frantically looked at each of them, mutely pleading.

_Why are they hesitating?_

Puzzled, she turned to Erik. He also watched their reluctance under his steady gaze, as if taking in each of their weaknesses at once, his eyes finally resting upon Mas.

"Your men seem to be rather unenthusiastic about your commands, M. Quennell. Tell me, why do you think that might be?"

Mas' lips pursed in anger as his brethren began to turn to one another in silent confusion. "What are you waiting for?" he hissed. One of the men cleared his throat and cautiously stepped forward.

"You see, Monsieur, some of us are unsure of the reason for…dispensing of the Comtesse de Chagny. Many here were acquaintances of Raoul de Chagny before he…died, and knew his wife from certain social circles…"

Christine narrowed her eyes, trying to place the voice of the man speaking.

"She doesn't seem to be much of a threat," he said apologetically. "Maybe if she swore to leave and never to tell anyone."

A quiet mumbling of concurrence rose from several of the members. A second man spoke up.

"Furthermore, the oath of _Fraternité_ does not say anything about the dispensing of the _family_ of members who are led astray; just members of the brotherhood _themselves_."

"But it does not condemn it, either!" called out a shrouded figure from the back. "We must think of the greater good—the very purpose for our brotherhood's existence!" Another chorus echoed more bravely now, raising their flickering lanterns in agreement.

"If we suddenly began ridding ourselves of any person who might, one day, prove to be a threat to the brotherhood," argued another, "then we would be nothing better than common murderers! Do not forget, brothers, that the Reign of Terror was the downfall of our Jacobin forefathers…"

As all of the fifty men began to debate amongst themselves, Christine carefully edged closer to Erik, pressing her shoulder against his tall frame.

"What do we do?" she asked. "The rope—"

"Shhhh, just watch," he whispered, signaling to the growing confusion in front of them. He bent over her wounded arm, running a thin finger over the sticky, blood-soaked material and pulled it away. She flinched. His hands froze, then carefully resumed the task, wiping away the blood with his handkerchief so he could properly see the wound. He continued his explanation quietly while he tended to her arm.

"Any true architect knows that to create a proper structure, you must first know how to manipulate what you are given to work with."

"Strengths and weaknesses?"

He nodded. "What is the _Fraternité_? It is an alliance meant to further social equality and brotherhood. Yet, at its heart, it functions as a _hierarchy_, with Mas Quennell at its pinnacle. And when there is a hierarchy, what naturally follows?"

Christine shook her head.

"Dissention," he hinted, the corners of his mouth quirking in cynicism. "Rebellion."

Wide-eyed, Christine looked at the men scattered about the cavern, studied them as they began to turn to each other, waving lanterns about and gesturing with their arms emphatically.

"I think that man over there—the one jabbing his finger into the other man's chest—might have been Raoul's clerk secretary," she muttered.

Erik grimaced. "I wouldn't be surprised if your banker and grocer were among them, as well." He finished tying his handkerchief over her arm, halting the bleeding. "The bullet only grazed your upper arm, fortunately. It took with it a finger's length of flesh, but it doesn't seem to have gone very deep."

A sudden, loud noise pierced through the growing discord as Mas threw down the metal deed box in a fit of anger, causing Christine to yelp in surprise. Clutching the oath in his hand, he waved it above his head to garner the wayward brothers' attention.

"Fools!" he cried. "Do you not see that if you let them live, they could _destroy _you? Robespierre himself said that _to_ _pity is treason_. We must do this for France, for the greater good of the people! Or would you have them go to the authorities and tell how you plotted against Tsar Alexander, befriended the _Narodnaya Volya_—"

" 'Crime butchers innocence to secure a throne'," Erik interrupted, his gaze locked on the startled M. Quennell as he slowly moved towards him, " 'and innocence struggles with all its might against the attempts of crime.' Do you know who said that, M. Quennell?"

"I care not," he sneered.

"Maximilien Robespierre."

Mas paled, his lips pursing in rage. He opened his mouth to speak, but Erik continued.

"Is that what you seek, M. Quennell? A _throne_ to lord over your subjects? Power, wealth, a place in history?"

"You know nothing—_understand_ nothing—"

"Is that why you butchered an innocent stable boy, Perri Nitot: to secure your throne?"

A sudden murmur rose up among the brothers, the exclamations of "a child?" and "cruelty!" leaping above the undertone.

"Lies!" Mas hissed, his hand trembling in anger as he raised the revolver.

Erik pressed on. "It would appear that your fellow brethren knew nothing of this foul deed of yours, M. Quennell!" He leered at the man, his mouth curling wickedly. "I suppose they do not know that you murdered the _avocat_, Monsieur Henri David, either!"

And then murmurs turned to an uproar that echoed through the cavern, the quaking, flashing lanterns mirroring their outrage.

"How…how could you possibly know that?" Mas spat.

"Because you used my surname," Erik said evenly. "Only four people in Prague knew of it. One is three years of age. Two are persons of interest to you, and knowing your tendency to gloat when triumphing over others, if you had discovered them, you would have mentioned it. This leaves M. David—a man known to fold under pressure. He is the _only_ man who could have known this!" He moved forward until he towered above Mas, a menace now mere feet away, heedless of the loose pistol in his enemy's hand. "And after he told you about Christine's plans to travel to Paris, you had no reason to keep him alive!"

Christine pulled her cloak more tightly about her neck, trying to ease away from the cries of "shame!" resounding around her. Was Erik speaking the truth about her wayward friend, who had chosen to stay behind in Prague? She pressed the dingy toy horse to her face, sick of heart, wishing away the steadily growing madness unfolding before her. Papi, now Henri—both dead because of this evil, horrible man. This man who had her little boy in his grasp…

_Or does he?_ Christine's head flew up in astonishment, Erik's words coming together in her mind. If Erik was right and Mas hadn't found Ze'ev and Rhivka Borochov, then perhaps…

"Brothers!" Mas cried frantically over the clamor, his voice growing hoarse, "_Do not_ listen to this grand manipulator's poison! Can you not see that he wants you to turn against me?"

"Yes!" a handful of men cried.

"The phantom cannot be trusted!—"

"Then why isn't the Marquis de Bourges among you?" called a commanding voice amidst the rising din of objections.

Christine gasped in shock—she would know the owner of that voice anywhere. Her eyes immediately found the broad-shouldered man striding forward from the crowd, his entire person shrouded in brown, just as the others were. All focus was now upon him—even Quennell's—as he turned and faced the _Fraternité_, pushing back his hood. Christine pressed a hand over her mouth, disbelieving whom she saw. It was Philippe de Chagny whose steely gaze caught the attention of a hundred angry eyes, the broken man in Prague now banished for the cold, straight-backed aristocrat of before.

Christine dared a glance at Erik. He too was watching the man with surprise, the development something he hadn't quite anticipated.

"Impossible!" cried someone from the crowd. "You are dead; drowned right here, in this lake!"

"If you wish me dead, then you may kill me now," Philippe replied, holding out his hands.

No one answered.

"Brothers of _liberté et égalité_," he continued, "it is true that Henri David is dead. The _Narodnaya Volya_ murdered him in Prague by the command of M. Quennell—the very evil you protect. I saw his lifeless body with my own eyes." He pointed an accusing finger at Mas. "For years, I have lived as a ghost, consumed with guilt, and shame, and fear that this man would hunt me down. I dared not go against his power and the magnetism he wielded us with. He _murdered_ my _brother_, Raoul de Chagny, and we allowed him to do it!" Philippe's deep voice broke with emotion. "And now he has killed Michel David's brother, a naive man whom we would not even count among our number."

Some of the men began to nod, their heads bowed in shame.

"I ask you, _Fraternité_, how many must die before we root out this viper from our nest and destroy him?"

A wild roar erupted from the brotherhood. Christine saw—felt—that she was surrounded by barrels of gunpowder, so stormy was the hatred and craze brewing within the murky cavern, and it would only take the slightest spark to cause an explosion. It was as if the whole of the _Fraternité_ had awakened from a long slumber and were now hungry for prey: the gaunt, wide-eyed person of Mas Quennell. Pushing back their hoods and brandishing their weapons, they advanced towards the frantic, howling man, seizing his arms and shaking away his revolver before he could fire upon them.

"This is madness!" Mas screamed, struggling against their brute force. "Imbeciles! You forget who I am—the descendent of the mighty Robespierre! You cannot do this—"

Feeling herself caught up in the current as dozens streamed by her, she fought her way past them to Erik's side and grasped his hand.

"M. Quennell seems to have forgotten how Robespierre met his end," Erik shouted next to her.

"At the hands of his own brotherhood," Christine replied, grimly musing at the irony of it. She shook her head, fascinated and terrified by the fiery lanterns and cloaks swarming before her, like a pack of wolves devouring their game. Some of the men were indeed acquaintances of hers and Raoul's: Baron Pomeroy, Raoul's fencing partner; M. Godard, a cellist with the _Académie Royale de Musique_; and indeed, M. Audley, her banker.

"Follow me," Erik shouted into her ear, taking her hand and circumventing around the large circle of men. They side-stepped abandoned lanterns and cloaks, stealthily making their way towards a labyrinth entrance to wait until some measure of calm was restored.

Peace, however, was not forthcoming. Before they could reach the safety of the dark labyrinth, the second match was soon touched to the powder kegs, igniting another explosion.

Philippe de Chagny was pushing through the mob to its epicenter, where the angry men were stripping Mas of his shroud and tearing it to pieces. "Do not kill him," he instructed, effectively silencing the crowd. "If justice is to have its due course, we will need him alive to officially stand before the brotherhood and the Marquis de Bourges. Henri David was the Marquis' brother, after all—"

The last part of his instruction, however, was lost as another noise—the high trill of a whistle—shrilly echoed down from the cellars above. And then a man's voice faintly followed, then another, their shouts carried down through the tunnels to the rapt ears of the brothers clustered in the fourth cellar.

"Someone is coming down," murmured the person grasping Mas' elbow. All eyes riveted to the tunnel entrance where Christine and Erik hovered, from which the noises had emanated.

"That would be the _Sûreté_," Philippe said darkly.

The man blinked several times, wiping his damp brow and sweat-filled eyes with his forearm. "And how would you know that?"

"Because the Marquis de Bourges summoned them to the opera house not an hour ago."

The Comte de Chagny's words hung in the already thick, stale air of the cavern, the weight of them pressing down upon the gathering of aristocrats and proletarians alike, pinning them in place. Then the quiet plodding of footsteps filled the silence as one brother broke from the mass and ran in abject terror, then another, and another, until the whole had erupted into a pandemonium which resounded above Lake Averne, through the cavern, and up, up, into the cellars above. Cries of retreat stirred the chaos as men staggered and fled in all directions, not knowing whether they were running towards the tunnels or to the lake. Lanterns were abandoned, dropping to the stones and shattering, their flames catching corners of robes or fizzling out upon the damp ground. Feet slipped and slid over hot oil and glass as men shouted in pain, shards lodging into their hands when they fell, or when they clutched at another man to break their falls. What little light remained only added to the madness as they cast threatening, frightful shadow creatures upon the walls, magnifying the churning turmoil tenfold.

Christine could only gape as Erik led her away from the tunnel and back towards the lake, pausing only to gather up the abandoned oath of _Fraternité_ from the ground. Not twelve steps away, Philippe was crouching over Mas Quennell, roughly gathering the beaten man's wrists behind his back and pressing his face to the floor. Her trance snapped.

"Erik!" she cried over the uproar, "what about Jean-Paul? We have to go back and make that man tell us where he is, _please_!"

"You are _not _going back there!" He clamped both hands over her wrists as she struggled against his superior strength, pulling her along as he weaved around broken glass and fire. "Mas cannot _possibly_ have him—"

"You don't know for sure!" she cried.

"Christine—"

Before Erik could finish his thought, however, a shock of force barreled into his side, sending both he and Christine flying to the ground. She hurriedly spun away from the fiercely growling creatures clutching at each other and leapt to her feet. A quick glance about her told her what had happened. To her horror, Philippe no longer had Mas Quennell imprisoned, but was face-down upon the ground, a stream of blood trickling from his temple. The snarling man had managed to escape and attack her distracted husband, biting and clawing like a wild, rabid beast.

"_The oath!_ _Give it to me_!" Mas howled. His slick gray hair now clung messily to his bloodied forehead; spectacles long gone, his icy eyes were full of fire and rage as he pushed all of his hatred into his limbs, kicking and fighting against Erik until he had managed to trap the masked man beneath him. Erik ground his teeth, his own face contorted with deadly ferocity. With a sharp jab of the elbow, he managed to throw Mas back just long enough to wrap his fingers around the man's shredded shirtsleeve and fling him to the ground. Crying out, Mas slid out from under Erik just as he made a grab at his throat; once again, they crashed into each other like two black demons after the scent of blood.

It was then that Christine saw it: A flash of metal clasped in Mas' fist, briefly glinting in the weak glow from the last few lanterns. It disappeared and then resurfaced, its blade now streaked with red.

A ragged scream tore from her throat. Frantically, she dropped the toy horse and ran about the now emptied cellar in search of something to hurl at her husband's attacker—a rock, glass, anything that could kill. She stumbled towards the trap door—it had been here, just before—her hands searching the ground in the dim light for the weapon that had caught her eye earlier. At last, her fingers skimmed over the forgotten length of rope. She exhaled in relief and snatched it up, twisting its dusty fibers in her palms.

It was immediately apparent why Erik had not gone after the rope. Rough and shoddy, it was not the proper weight or make for throwing a lasso. As her trembling, clammy fingers hurriedly fashioned a loop and eye, however, she decided that casting the thing would not matter, in this case. Noose clutched in her tiny fingers, she scrambled to her feet and ran towards the bloodied men thrashing about on the stones, fixing her huntress' eyes upon her victim. With a shout, she yanked the unsuspecting man's head back and dropped the rope around his neck, pulling it taut.

Loosing a confused, strangled cry, Mas kicked away from the masked man and flung himself to the ground, desperately trying to dig his fingers underneath the fibers around his throat and dislodge it. It would not move. Christine dropped to her knees over the flailing man, effectively pinning Mas to the ground.

"Tell me where my son is!" she cried. Tears of loathing and grief streamed from her eyes and splashed upon her hands as they clasped the rope with a strength she had never known before.

Mas' eyes widened. "I….don't…have…"

Christine pulled the rope tighter, nearly lifting the man from the ground. "Where is Jean-Paul?" she demanded.

The only answer was a sick choking sound coming from the dying man's lips.

"I hate you!" she sobbed, closing her eyes as red rage filtered into her mind. It clouded her sight, urged her on and on, bidding her to pull and pull until the air was gone from the other end of the rope. "I hate you, I hate you—"

"Christine."

"I hate you—" she rasped.

"Christine." Strong, thin hands closed over hers, working their way around her fingers and gently prying them loose from the rope. "Angel, do not do this. You do not want to do this thing. Your son is safe, I swear to you."

"I do! I want him dead."

"If you kill him like this—this man that you hate—then you will be dead, as well," he said hoarsely, his gold eyes holding hers. "Revenge is a bitter bedfellow, once you invite it in. I should know."

She shook her head, swearing that nothing could be sweeter than killing the man who had nearly destroyed her. Still, ever so slowly, her fingers began to relax around the lasso until she allowed Erik to take the thing from her grasp and fling it to the floor. Somewhere below her, she heard a man sputtering and choking as air filled his lungs again. She dared not look at him. Instead, she turned to her husband and buried her face in his shoulder, crying and shuddering as he enfolded her in his arms and lifted her off of the strangled man, rocking her as if she were a child.

A moment later, she heard him quietly speaking to someone above her. Lifting her blurry eyes from his shoulder, she saw that Philippe was now awake and had joined them, looking haggard and beaten in the small circle of light from his lantern.

"Tie his hands and feet with that thing," said Erik, nodding to the rope.

The Comte knelt next to the wheezing, half-conscious man and bound him with the bloodied weapon, sparing no gentleness in doing so. Finished, he stood up and observed his enemy with a shrewd eye.

"It would be folly to leave him alive. He has too many friends yet; there are those that would swear to his innocence, even help him to escape to Russia."

"I know." Sighing, Erik helped Christine to her feet then winced as fire flared through his torso. Lifting away his torn waistcoat, he examined the knife wound just under his ribs and pressed his hand to it, hissing in pain. "I have been stabbed more times in the past months than I care to count. Let us put and end to it, shall we?"

Philippe nodded and stooped to pick up Mas' discarded knife from the ground, groaning as his much-abused head protested.

"Wait," said Erik, his lips twisting devilishly. "I have something a bit more elaborate in mind."

ooOOoo

It did not take Erik long to find the gondola and pole he had carefully tethered away beneath a stone outcropping on the lake's shore. Pressing down upon the corner of the stone, he triggered some sort of mechanism and it sprung up, allowing any passengers to safely step into the hidden boat. He leapt in and steadied the gondola with the steering pole as Philippe tossed a semiconscious Quennell onto the floor, handed Christine in, and then boarded himself.

Christine stared out over the black, still surface, allowing the peaceful sound of the water swirling about the hull of the gondola to calm her jumbled nerves. Somewhere in the tunnels, the shouts of the _Fraternité_ echoed as they clashed with the _Sûreté_. It was unintelligible and faint, as if it were retreating away from her while she slipped further and further into a dream. She didn't stir from it until the venomous mutterings of an awakening Mas Quennell broke through.

"If you do not release me, the brotherhood will tear you limb by limb and feed you to the cellar rats!" he wheezed.

"I doubt that," she replied nonchalantly and turned her gaze back to the waters.

"You will never see your child again. I have him, you know."

Philippe cleared his throat and turned to Christine. "That is a lie, Madame. I saw my nephew and his companions to safety the day you left Prague."

"Thank God," she breathed.

"After your visit," Philippe continued, "my conscience would not allow me to continue to wallow in self-pity. I had you followed to your inn, you see. When I returned to see you and Jean-Paul, you had already left, and the others were preparing to leave. M. David, foolish boy, chose to remain in Prague. When I went to see him one day, he was dead. It was then that I decided to make myself known to the Marquis, and together, we watched and waited for the right moment to act."

Christine sighed, trailing her fingertips over the glassy waters. "Poor Henri. He never truly realized the danger he was in, I believe."

"And you," sneered Mas, "do not realize the danger that will rain down upon your head if you do not release me!"

Slowly, the gondola skimmed to a halt as Erik lifted the pole from the water. Turning around, he scowled fiercely at the simpering man in the bottom of the boat. Then, he swiftly twisted the pole in his hands, peppering his passengers with drops of lake water, and struck Mas with the end of it, sending him once more into an unconscious stupor.

"He doesn't realize the danger he is in, either," he glowered as he turned back to the water, steering the gondola into motion.

ooOOoo

Christine gingerly checked her freshly bandaged arm, then pulled back the blanket of the bed and tucked it around her feet. Wearily, she gazed about the dimly lit Louis-Philippe room once more—its opulent, dust-covered furnishings strangely comforting—before turning down the light and settling into the bed.

Another shrill cry sounded from the torture chamber just beyond the walls. Grimacing, she buried her face in her pillow, trying to forget what was happening in the gruesome, mirrored room with the iron tree.

Instead, she focused on the musty smell of the pillow, aggravating her nose. _The whole house will need to be aired out,_ she pondered. Then it occurred to her that there really was no way to bring fresh air into Erik's underground home.

Another terrible shriek.

Christine pressed her palms over her ears, but they didn't keep away the imaginings stirring in her mind. It was times like this that Erik's insatiable hunger for revenge truly frightened her. Even though she struggled to remember he was doing it for her, to the man she hated, it did not make his torture chamber any less horrifying.

Mas Quennell had not put up much of a resistance when Erik had escorted him into the death trap. Perhaps he hadn't realized what the unusual chamber was. Or perhaps, at that point, he was so thoroughly steeped in his delusions of power that he truly believed he was an immortal. Despite his bloodied and bruised face and wild appearance, he strode into the room with arrogant dignity and turned to face his executioner.

"I will live forever, you understand," he said evenly, his swollen throat nearly choking his raspy words. "The people still recall the name of the Incorruptible with fervor!"

Erik looked daggers at the man. "The people guillotined the Incorruptible face up and buried him in an unmarked pauper's grave. His screams of torment are the only thing they remember now. Goodbye, M. Quennell; you deserve this fate." And with those parting words, he closed the door and bolted it.

Philippe had stood by as well, observing the destruction of his enemy in measured silence. As the door closed upon Mas' unintelligible barbs and Erik triggered the chamber's mechanisms, he stepped forward and rested a hand upon the wall, his eyes filling with pain.

"This is for Raoul," the Comte murmured. His fingers balled into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white as bone. And then they relaxed and slid from the wall to his side. He turned to Christine and held out his hand, smiling gently into her morose face.

"Come, my dear lady, we must properly tend to your arm."

Christine glanced at her husband with concern. "Erik, that gash at your side—"

The masked man waved a hand dismissively, his eyes never leaving the door of the torture chamber. "I shall tend to it later. By all means, leave this grisly sight."

It wasn't long after she had bandaged and cleaned her wound that the screaming had begun. Christine could not be sure, but she swore that the screams were followed by a low, delighted cackle…

A quiet knock upon the Louis-Philippe door was a welcome interruption to her thoughts.

"Enter," she drowsily answered, turning up the lamp again and smoothing back her dark hair. Philippe de Chagny peered into the room, the oath of _Fraternité_ tucked under his arm. Mutely, he handed it to her then stepped back, waiting. She stared, not quite sure of him.

"It is yours," Philippe said. "Open it."

Christine smoothed her palm over the worn, leather surface of the book, then carefully opened it to the first page. Her eyes skimmed over the faded black scrawl. It was an explanation of the _Fraternité_—its reasons for existing. The swooping letters told of how the brotherhood's purpose was to carry on the ideals of the old Jacobin Club and use their influence and power to make all peoples equal and free from the constraints of a monarchy. It went on to detail the three inviolate rules of the brotherhood: Heritage, influence, and loyalty above all else.

And then there was the oath of _Fraternité_ itself:

_For the love of France and for her people and our common purpose, from this day onwards, in wisdom and power, I shall protect these Jacobin brothers of mine with aid or anything else, as one ought to protect one's brother, so that they may do the same for me. And I shall never knowingly make any covenant with the monarchy and those that would harm these brothers of mine. _

_Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité._

At the bottom of the page was the bold, elegant signature of Georges Léon, the Comte de Chagny; Secretary.

"I wonder if he knew what the consequences would be, the old Comte," Christine said softly. "How sad, that he composed the very oath which led to the death of his own great-grandson."

"It is a grief that our family must now bear for many generations to come, I am afraid." Philippe crossed the room and sat next to Christine, hesitantly touching her hand. "I did not know you had remarried, my dear. You might have mentioned it in Prague…but that is of no consequence now. You deserve a chance to be happy, and so does Jean-Paul. However, I am afraid I must question your choice of—"

"Did you swear it, also?" Christine abruptly interrupted, refusing to go down the conversation path that Philippe had chosen. "The oath? And did Raoul?"

Philippe nodded. "I swore it and lived by it, even after I knew that Mas Quennell wished me dead. I know it is difficult for you to fathom just now, but the _Fraternité_ has not always been so corrupted. Turn the page, please."

Christine cautiously flipped the delicate book page, her eyes widening at what she saw.

"My Lord," she breathed, "there are hundreds of names! Look at all of them…" She read over the pages of listings, well-known names leaping out at her, each one making the enormity of the secret more unbelievable. Eighty years' worth of members: politicians, artists, businessmen, aristocrats and bourgeoisie alike, many of them the brightest minds of their time.

"For years, our brotherhood did a great deal of good for France, as you can see. Underneath our shrouds, we were all equal; we functioned as one, using our growing influence to promote liberty and equality." Philippe removed his hand from hers, not quite meeting her eye. "However, the lust for power always corrupts the best of intentions. As we grew stronger, more influential, we became fanatical in our pursuit of the Jacobin ideals. When the Communards rose up in Paris, we saw an opportunity and supported—even encouraged them, knowing that our own families and estates would be safe from them. We watched as dissent grew against the Russian tsar and took a chance to gain influence in that country by financing those who would destroy the Romanov dynasty."

Another strangled cry from the torture chamber peeled through the home, breaking into Philippe's story. It hung in the silence for a long moment, and then faded away. The Comte uncomfortably cleared his throat and continued.

"And if these deeds were not enough, we sought out Mas Quennell—the young, exiled descendent of Maximilien Robespierre. We wanted an emblem of sorts—a banner to wave amongst ourselves, proclaiming our greatness. So we glorified him as a leader. We thought we could wield his charisma, so we encouraged his megalomaniacal tendencies. How wrong we were." Resigned, Philippe sighed and rose. "We Chagnys began the _Fraternité_, and now we must end it."

"What do you want me to do, Philippe?" Christine asked.

"Tomorrow, at first light, I want you to take this book to the _Sûreté_."

"But…" she stuttered, "this would condemn each man for crimes against France, including _you_. You know what the punishment for treason is, Philippe—"

"We reap what we sow, Madame." A tired, wistful smile graced his face. "Perhaps I shall have the opportunity to see the latest opera before they come for me. However, the ballet truly is not what it used to be. Read the last page, my dear; I think you will find it of interest." And with that, he turned from her and quietly slipped from the room.

Christine waited until he had closed the door before doing as he asked. She gasped, the neat penmanship at once familiar:

_To whoever comes into possession of this grave thing_, it began;

_Count yourself fortunate that you are still alive, for this book may very well be your death warrant. I must assume that as the oath is not under my care, I did not live to stand witness at the Russian trials upon the dealings of the Fraternité, and their role in the assassination of Tsar Alexander II. _

_I do not regret betraying my fellow brothers. Truthfully, there was never a choice to be made, for I could only do what I knew to be right. To remain silent would have been to betray France, whom I first swore allegiance to. I pray that my actions against the Fraternité will eventually bring truth to light in these dark times._

_My one lament is that my wife and child will have suffered for my decision. To them, I give something greater than my presence. I leave them my honor and my love._

_Honneur, Patrie, Valeur, Discipline_

_Raoul, the Comte de Chagny_

_Secretary _

Quiet tears streaming down her cheeks, Christine held the book tightly in her arms and rested peacefully, at last able to shut out Mas Quennell's screams.

ooOOoo

Christine did not wake again until she felt a cool, gloved hand gently shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes and met the adoring gaze of her husband, kneeling next to her bed.

"Is he gone?" she murmured sleepily, stretching her arms and yawning.

"Nearly an hour ago. I didn't want to wake you—you needed the rest. We waited to dispose of him, though, because I thought you might like to be there."

"'We'? Is Philippe still here?" she asked, somewhat surprised.

Erik nodded. "It has been a rather uncomfortable hour."

"I suppose I had better be up, then," she said in bemusement. Languidly pulling herself from the bed, she went in search of her discarded stockings. As she began to lace up her boots, she felt Erik's eyes upon her.

"What is it?"

"It is nothing," he shrugged. "Just…it is pleasing to see you in this room. That is all."

Christine tenderly smiled, resting her hand upon his. "All of my things are still here, just as I left them; even my dresses."

"Though rather out of style, I am afraid. We shall have to buy you pretty new things, shan't we?"

"I won't need Parisian fashion to hold my son again."

Erik blinked in surprise. "You do not wish to remain in Paris?"

"The sooner we can leave for the Tatras, the better; tomorrow, in fact. I am _aching_ to be with Jean-Paul again—"

"Christine," Erik said firmly, "leaving tomorrow will be nearly impossible. There is the _Sûreté_ to contend with, not to mention the mess you will have to straighten out regarding Jean-Paul's inheritance now that Philippe de Chagny is known to be alive."

Christine smiled sweetly, wrapping her arms around his thin waist affectionately. "You have never been one to conform to the demands and responsibilities of others, Erik. Let us not start now." Pulling the man to her, she was abruptly halted when she felt him tense beneath her hands and hiss in pain.

"Oh Erik," she apologized, "I forgot about your side. Does it hurt much?" She pushed away his waistcoat to see the white bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.

"No more than the last time," he replied through clenched teeth.

Sighing, she took his masked face in her hands. "I cannot bear it! How much you have suffered for me and my son." Leather-clad hands wrapped around hers, pulling them to his dry, thin lips.

"Don't you know that I would happily suffer it all again, Christine? All I have _ever_ wanted was to live solely for you." The corners of his mouth quirked mischievously. "If fifty such madmen decide to plunge their knives into my side like Mas Quennell did today, it would be of little consequence to me, as long as _you_ were there afterwards to fret over my little injuries. Besides," he said, his gold eyes suddenly dark and threatening, "if any man ever dared to hurt you as Mas did, I swear that I shall send them to the devil."

Christine shuddered at his chilly threat. Circling her arms about his neck, she pressed her face there and exhaled, murmuring a soft "thank you."

"Come," Erik said, taking her hands and leading her to the door. "I have a gift for you."

ooOOoo

The body was in the parlor, shrouded from head to toe in a gray wool blanket that thankfully obscured what Christine knew was a ghastly sight. Philippe stood next to it, watching her warily as she entered the room, ready to catch her should she faint in hysterics. Steeling her expression, she ignored his chivalrous impulses and gestured to the door.

"To the boat, I assume?"

"One moment," said Erik as he crossed the parlor and entered a laboratory of sorts. A minute later, he emerged with a small wax vial in hand. Tucking it under his coat, he dropped his black felt hat upon his head and bent to lift up the corners of the makeshift body bag. Philippe did the same.

Careful not to drop their load, they made their way to the lakeshore where the gondola glistened, sleek in the small circle of light from the lantern.

Erik steered the boat through the darkened labyrinth, gradually carrying them into parts of the cellar Christine was unfamiliar with. It wasn't until they ran to ground on the other side and she alighted from the gondola thather surroundings began to bear a resemblance to some place she had seen before.

"I…I think I may have been here, once," she said unsurely. "It was all rather hazy."

"You were not altogether alert at the time, I believe," Erik replied enigmatically. "Up a way, into the labyrinth, there is a little well."

Philippe looked puzzled. "I am not quite following your logic, Monsieur. If I remember correctly, are not the Communard roads on the other side of this cellar? Surely it would be better to leave him there, among the other bodies—"

"If I wanted him to be mistaken for a dead Communard," Erik snapped, "then I would have taken us to those roads. Just carry his feet, Chagny, and leave the rest to me."

Taken aback by the masked man's irritation, Philippe could only nod and heft the body's feet up, getting a better grip on his share of the load.

At last they reached the little well in the labyrinth, its gloomy, forgotten stones a welcome picture in the dim glow of the lantern. Dropping the corpse, Erik knelt next to it and pulled the rough blanket aside, then took the wax vial from his coat and unstopped it.

"You may want to stand away," he called over his shoulder to his companions, the vial poised over the dead man's face. Whipping a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to his mouth as he cautiously poured some sort of chemical over the right side of the corpse's face—his forehead, nose, cheek, jawline—dripping it strategically as if he were creating a work of art. When the vial was empty, he stopped it again and hurled it into the labyrinth.

"What was that?" asked Philippe.

"Hydrofluoric acid. A rather new substance used by glassmakers for etching and cutting designs." Erik peeled his gloves off and tossed them onto the blanket. "It is very potent; I wouldn't recommend touching or inhaling it, if I were you."

The Comte watched the dead man's face, brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but whatever it is supposed to do, it does not seem to be working."

"Give it time, Monsieur. The acid destroys flesh from the inside out, so the facial structure will go first. We cannot take any chances of his being identified, you see, if someone were to happen upon him in the near future. Very soon, he will look like a corpse."

Christine studied Erik's masked face as he spoke, the yellow intensity of his eyes riveted to the body beside the well. And though Philippe could not fathom what Erik was doing, she understood completely, her heart softening. Resting her hand on her husband's shoulder, she watched Mas' still face as the acid began its handiwork. Soon, the face was truly that of a corpse—sunken cheek, mottled, yellowed skin, caved-in nose—the right side completely devastated.

Erik lifted her fingers from his shoulder and kissed them, his lips lingering over her wedding ring. Suddenly, he started and held her hand in front of him, staring at the gold band; a new thought churned in his genius mind. Kneeling next to the corpse, he lifted its hand and pulled the onyx ring from its finger, then held it out to Philippe.

"You may want to keep this." He looked at the Comte's hand. "Give me the gold ring on your small finger, if you will."

Philippe placed a hand protectively over it. "Sir, this…this was a token from Mlle. Sorelli," he explained, somewhat embarrassed. "I'd rather not—"

"The ring, Monsieur!"

Sighing, the Comte slid the ring from his finger and relinquished it to Erik. Placing the gold band on Mas' own dead hand, he stepped back to observe his work.

"Perfect," he whispered, his lips curling fiendishly.

Christine could not help but shudder. The resemblance was uncanny. Her eyes locked upon the corpse, she did not flinch when two cold hands grasped her shoulders and slowly pulled her backwards until she felt Erik's thin torso behind her. Leaning into him, she sighed in contentment as his mouth brushed her ear.

"Look what I have done for you, Christine, my wife," he whispered, his breath warm upon her neck. "I have killed him, and he will haunt you no more. _He_ is dead."

Philippe's fine eyes shot to the couple and saw that each was lost in the other, in a way he could not understand. Something significant had passed between them—something more important than the destruction of Mas Quennell—though he knew not what. Shaking his head, he turned to go back to the gondola.

As he did, however, something odd caught his eye. Squinting at his former sister more closely, he blinked several times, puzzled.

"I say," he asked hesitantly, "is that my opera cloak?"

_

* * *

A/N: Yeay! One chapter left, and then an Epilogue. Again, thank you all for following and reading this story. _

_I'd like to ask a favor of each of you. If you have been reading this story, please take a moment to leave a review. I would be very grateful if you would do this for several reasons. First, I just want to hear from you, period! Second, it would be very nice and helpful to know what you enjoyed about the story, and what you didn't. Lastly, I may consider writing a one-shot sometime in the future, and I'd like to know what readers might be interested in._

_Again, thank you so much for your support! _

**Story Recommendation: _Teacher of Music_, by Allison E.L. Cleckler**

I had heard of this story a long time ago and always meant to read it, but couldn't locate it again until its author reviewed my writing. I happily found it once more, and now I am kicking myself for not picking it up earlier! The story is ALW-based and features a much overlooked but delightful character: Monsieur Reyer,_ chief répétiteur._ The premise is that the Phantom truly is insane, and that Reyer is the more logical "secret teacher" for Christine. I'm not very far into it yet, admittedly, but it is a delightful read, infused with wonderful characters, detail, humor, and best of all, good storytelling.


	41. The Ghost's Love Story

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

_Side Notes: _

_Thank you to Le Chat Noir and Phantomy-Cookies for betaing! Their own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen names "Chatastic" and "Phantomy-Cookies". _

_Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement, readers. You are the most amazing bunch!_

**The Ghost's Love Story**

Nadir Khan shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his fingers drumming the top of the black astrakhan cap resting in his lap. For nearly two hours he had sat there in the cramped study amongst his _Sûreté_ peers, fielding their questions and avoiding their distrustful eyes with growing unease.

_Another minute of this,_ the daroga thought bitterly, _and Erik will just have to find someone else to clean up his messes for him._ And then he snorted to himself, suddenly finding it funny that he had been threatening to do so for twenty years.

"Do you wish to say something, M. Khan?" the steely-haired man behind the desk asked him. He paused as he flipped through the musty pages of the oath of _Fraternité_, his eyes looking up to meet those of the Persian's.

Nadir held out his hands in resignation. "I have told you all that I know, Monsieur. The man who called himself the Phantom of the Opera is dead; he was killed nearly two months ago during the storming of the opera house cellars. If your men had combed the tunnels as thoroughly as you claim, then you would have happened upon his body. His wife and the Comte de Chagny buried him there, so I was told."

"I cannot believe that," piped up the young man who had recently joined them, energetically leaning forward on his elbows.

_What was his name? Lane? Fale?_ Nadir searched his mind, trying to recall the brief time he had spent in London. _Hale! That was it—one of the Sûreté's undercovers at the docks. _

"If you had only seen this man in action like I did," Hale continued, "you would not so easily believe that he died, either. This Erik is all genius and wit. Forgive me, M. Khan, but I think your story is a lie."

"Yes," drawled the stocky man behind the desk, dismissively. "Returning to the Comtesse de Chagny. Tell me again how she came to be in possession of these things?" He rested a thick hand upon the stack of papers next to the oath of _Fraternité_.

"I have told you time and again—Raoul de Chagny left them to her in a safe-box in Prague. She only recently discovered their existence. Considering the turmoil that has plagued her this past year, you can understand her reluctance to have anything more to do with them. Therefore, she entrusted them to me."

The agent nodded. "And this book, belonging to the Jacobin remnants?"

"Found in the fourth cellar," Nadir sighed. "That is why the entire tribe was down there to begin with, as I have just explained!"

"Extraordinary. Now…" The man rifled through his papers and pulled one from a large envelope. He placed the slip in front of Nadir. "Do you know what this is?"

"It appears to be a marriage certificate."

The man nodded. "One Christine Reinard, formerly Chagny: wedded in Jerusalem, but then waited to file _this_ until exactly two days after her husband's alleged death beneath the opera house. Tell me—why would she bother to file her marriage certificate at all?"

Nadir smiled. "Who can say what was upon the lady's heart, Monsieur?"

The large man's fingers formed a steeple over his mouth and he leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. "Let us suppose, M. Khan, that this phantom friend of yours were alive—hypothetically speaking, I hasten to add. He would be of insurmountable use to the _Sûreté_, wherever we chose to send him: Italy, Russia, the Orient. His remarkable ability to meld into his surroundings like a ghost and then strike his foe would make him the very best of spies or assassins_. If_ he were alive."

"He has been a ghost, a spy, and an assassin, Monsieur, and I can assure you he would have no desire to become them again." The daroga's eyebrows quirked ironically. "Hypothetically speaking, of course, as my friend is dead."

"And if your friend were _alive_, sir, I would remind him that it is still very possible to bring charges upon his head for his extensive list of crimes: murder, of course; the destruction of opera house property; theft; extortion; kidnapping; treason. The majority of these are enough to send him to the gallows. However, all could be _conveniently_ overlooked if he were to offer his services to France."

"It is a pity for France that Erik is dead, then." The Persian's jade eyes narrowed, his voice little more than a whisper. "I might add that his death is fortunate for you, though. Those who force this man into a corner often find themselves at the end of a punjab lasso. _If _he were alive, he would most certainly hunt you down."

The agent glanced questioningly at Hale.

"It is all true," Hale said evenly, "especially the part about the lasso. You should have _seen _what he did to that Russian revolutionary in London. The body was rather contorted and blue from the effects of this lasso, and there was nothing to do with it but dispose of it in the Thames."

The agent's hardened face paled considerably. Pressing two fingers to his temples, he closed his eyes for a minute as if deep in thought. "Well then," he said at last, "it is a shame this phantom is dead."

Feigning a slight cough to hide his smile, the Persian nodded and rose from the chair. Stretching his limbs and back, he replaced his astrakhan cap and turned to go.

"However," the agent continued, "if he were to someday find himself _alive_, and opera houses or any other buildings, properties, or peoples complain of being harassed, kidnapped, or murdered…" The agent paused, his face once again that of iron. "We will not hesitate to hunt _him_ down, either."

"Of course."

"You might also wish to tell the Chagny family and Madame Reinard, wherever she is, of the _Fraternité_'s struggles to regroup. We were never able to apprehend all of them, you know, and I am most certain that those who remain at large would like nothing better than to see these particular aristocrats destroyed."

Nadir inclined his cap to each of the men and strode through the door, nearly slamming it behind him in frustration.

ooOOoo

Erik tugged the brim of his black hat down a little further, shielding his eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the bright white snow. Peering through the window of the brougham, he scowled and wiped away the thin layer of frost that had once more clouded the glass. The old brick building that served as the _Sûreté_'s headquarters was an imposing place, anonymous and unadorned compared to the more splendid structures in its vicinity. He pulled his new pocket watch from beneath his great coat, flipped it open, and sighed. Nearly two hours. The longer the daroga spent conversing with the _Sûreté_ agents, the more difficult it would be for himself and his family to slide into obscurity.

If two months spent in the isolated mountain villages of the High Tatras had taught him anything, it was that he and Christine could not live the rest of their lives in a cramped cottage without one of them driving the other mad. For all of Christine's patience and compassion, she had a strong will about her that clashed with his obstinacy when given occasion to. And Jean-Paul possessed twice as much stubbornness as his mother. To even consider keeping the child shut away during the long winter months with nothing to entertain him was ludicrous. Music lessons, after all, would only hold the boy's attention for so long.

So it had been decided that once their child was born, their summers would be spent in Starý Smokovec—a mountain village nestled in the High Tatras, and their winters amongst the anonymous hustle and bustle of Bratislava or some other city. However, if the _Sûreté_ were always breathing down his neck, just one step behind him as they had been for the past two months, then his small family would never have freedom to go where they pleased.

A sudden rush of cold air, followed by an aggravated "hmph" pulled Erik back to the present. The Persian quickly climbed into the brougham and closed the door, dropping into the frigid leather seat.

"And how did your visit with our gendarme friends go, daroga?" he asked pleasantly, tucking his pocket watch away again.

Nadir stared at the inappropriately jovial man across from him. His irritation warmed to a rage that turned his face red.

"So flippant. So secure in your anonymity. There I was, blatantly lying to the chief of _La Sûreté Nationale _himself, assuring him of your demise and risking my own credibility within the organization, all because you cannot bear to work with anybody who protects people and interests other than your own."

Erik's face darkened. "You may have forgotten, daroga, that it was _you_ who first encouraged me all those years ago in Persia to break from my life as an assassin and spy, and do some good with my remaining years."

"They will give you a _full pardon_, Erik. Does that not mean anything to you?"

"What do I care for their laws?" Erik snapped.

"The _Sûreté_ is not Mazenderan—"

"It is all the same, Nadir, no matter how you label it. You and I are not so very different creatures, save for the badge of authority upon your person. We have both violated the laws of humanity. What makes what I have done a crime, and what you have done, justice?"

Silence met his question. At last, the Persian spoke, his words cool and even.

"The _Sûreté_ will find you eventually, you understand. They are fairly certain that you are alive, and when they finally track you down, you will hang, Erik. Can you not even _pretend_ to work with them? Think of Christine and Jean-Paul, and the little one who will be with you before long."

"It is _for_ _them_ that I am trying to put this part of my life behind me!" Erik exclaimed, his voice becoming hoarse. "When I sent Mas Quennell to his grave, I swore to Christine that he would be the last. I want to be a father and a husband—not a killer."

Nadir measured him from the other side of the brougham, his glinting jade eyes softening a bit.

"Finally," Erik continued fervently, "I have the chance to live in peace—wade through 'quiet waters', as you put it. I will not let it pass me by! Surely you can understand this desire."

Nadir nodded sadly, the wound upon his heart caused by the death of Papi Nitot apparently as fresh and raw as it had been two months ago. "There can be no peace for some of us, _du stæm_—not completely. We must learn to endure the turbulence so we might enjoy those quiet waters when they come." He reached beneath his gray woolen coat and removed a piece of parchment, unfolded it, and handed it to Erik.

It was his pardon, contingent upon a lifetime's service with the French _Sûreté_.

"It is either this or an existence spent running from the gallows," Nadir said quietly. "You must ask yourself which will offer your children a better life."

Erik read over the formal script, his fingertips brushing the red wax seal upon the document. At last, he sighed, holding out his hands. "What would it take for them to let me live as normal a life as possible? Perhaps if I tossed them a bone…"

"You could agree to do very rare, special assignments for them—something that no one else is able to do."

"You mean assassinations."

"I was thinking more along the lines of espionage."

"As incompetent as the _Sûreté_ is, I would be forever in their employ!" Erik watched the stony-faced man for a reaction, then folded his gloved hands in his lap. "I am listening."

"You and your family will be well-protected and allowed to go most anywhere that you please, as long as you report your movements to headquarters. When you are away on assignments, the _Sûreté_ will see that Christine and the children are safe and provided for—"

"—They could not protect her, before—"

"_And—_" The Persian paused, his eyes meeting Erik's for the greatest impact, "You would have easy access to information regarding the _Fraternité_ and their dealings."

Erik grimaced, the implications of Nadir's last statement not lost upon him. "So," he muttered, "the rumors are true, then. The _Fraternité_ has begun to rebuild itself."

"I am afraid so. While the oath named hundreds of men, only those members listed _before_ the assassination of Tsar Alexander are implicated by the documents discovered in Prague. Those who joined _after_ the assassination cannot concretely be charged with anything. Each of them swears they knew nothing of the assassination, and no proof can be found to suggest otherwise."

"And the Comte de Chagny?"

The Persian's mouth curled in a half-smile. "He was declared legally 'dead' before the financing of the _Narodnaya Volya_ began—financing that was documented, anyway. And as only hearsay links him to any involvement in the Paris Commune…"

"He goes free."

"Correct."

Erik slowly nodded, his immoveable stance beginning to waver. Turning his eyes back to the fortress-like building of _La Sûreté Nationale_, he studied the brick walls for some answer to his dilemma. If the _Fraternité_ should ever re-emerge as a competent foe, there was no doubt in his mind that they would seek their revenge upon the Chagny family, and subsequently, his own.

"Very well, daroga," he yielded, his gaze returning to his companion. "I will accept the _Sûreté_'s kind request of service."

The Persian's tight features at once relaxed. "Praise Allah," he breathed.

Erik held up a hand. "I will accept, but only upon the condition that they not seek me out themselves. If the _Sûreté_ wishes for my assistance, they must go through you, my friend. I trust you to know what I might be bothered with and what could be done by anybody."

"I am sure that could be arranged."

"And I'll not be sent away for months at a time. Any espionage work that I might be able to do can certainly be accomplished in a matter of weeks."

"We shall see," the daroga replied carefully, unwilling to commit himself to a promise he might not be able to keep.

"And lastly, _no assassinations_. If I am forced to kill someone in the line of duty, so be it. Anything else—" Erik held up his hands in a gesture of futility, his eyes gleaming fiendishly.

"Yes, I know," Nadir said, his own mouth twitching. "You promised Christine."

"And you know what she is capable of, daroga."

"Very much so." Nadir laughed and held out his hand. "It shall be an experience having you on the side of the law for once, _du stæm_. I am afraid this will change our relationship immensely."

"Not so much, I think. After all, you must still be responsible for knowing my whereabouts and movements. This seems to be your life's curse."

The Persian nodded and settled into the icy leather seat of the brougham, still chuckling. The two colleagues continued in comfortable silence as the cab rattled over the dingy-white streets of Paris, the snow crunching beneath the wheels. Before long, they were passing by the ritzy town houses of the 16th_ Arrondissement_.

Erik rapped on the top of the coach, signaling for the driver to halt.

Nadir abruptly sat up. "Why are we stopping?"

"I have some business to attend to before I return to the train station. You may come with me if you like, but I will only be a moment."

The daroga's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "No tricks, Erik."

Sighing, the masked man pulled an envelope from beneath his black coat and showed it to Nadir.

Nadir blinked in surprise. "The Comte de Chagny?"

"Simply business regarding Jean-Paul's inheritance. Or lack thereof," he added ominously, then quickly stepped out of the brougham and strode to the door before the Persian could object.

ooOOoo

"Enter," replied Philippe de Chagny to the rap upon his library door, his intense gaze not leaving the leather-bound book in his hands. Motioning for the visitor to sit down, he hurriedly finished the paragraph, marked his place with a ribbon and closed his book before glancing up. His face immediately blanched.

"Monsieur le Comte," said Erik.

"Monsieur Reinard." Regaining his composure, Philippe rose and tersely gestured to the black walnut wingback opposite him. "Will you not sit down and tell me what business you have with me?"

"You know very well why I am here," the masked man replied acidly. He tossed a creased parchment on top of Philippe's lap, then meticulously folded his long frame into the proffered chair, his narrowed eyes never leaving the Comte's face.

The Comte scanned the letter, frowning. "This correspondence was intended for Christine alone. Or perhaps you have taken to reading her mail?"

"Oh, I can assure you that when my wife read how you planned to disinherit Jean-Paul, she was more than willing to let me handle the matter." Erik leaned forward, his words a menacing hiss. "I shall speak plainly, Monsieur. I do not take kindly to threats of blackmail, especially where my son is concerned."

"Stepson," Philippe murmured.

Erik's hand abruptly slammed down upon the arm of his chair. "He is _my son!_"

"He is a _Chagny_!" Philippe fired back. "Therefore, he must be raised with his family if he is to ever learn how to be a Vicomte, and certainly if he is to inherit. I am sorry, Monsieur, but there is no other way. Either the boy lives at the estate, or—"

"He is my son," Erik said quietly. "I love him."

Philippe's tirade died away as he observed the masked man. He stiffened, then cautiously lifted his face to meet Erik's steady gaze, searching for some sort of deception. "How can that be?" he said at last. "You hated Raoul."

"Yes. I have lately discovered that hate has not served me well. A common-enough plague upon humanity, so Christine would have me to believe." Erik sighed and reached under his cloak, pulled out a thin coil of rope, and rested it upon his knees.

Swallowing nervously, Philippe folded his trembling fingers in his lap. "What—" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "What is that for?"

"I had originally planned to use this to threaten you, Monsieur. Threats and violence have become a way of life for me, you see. However, I have always rather liked you," Erik explained. "Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was destroy such an impressive ally, especially after the great service you afforded my wife and me beneath the opera house."

"Monsieur," the Comte said hoarsely, "all I want is to make some sort of amends for the past. To have Raoul's child with me, as a true part of our family…to be a father to him, as my actions have deprived him of his own father…. That is all I desire." Philippe exhaled. "Perhaps my threat to disinherit the boy was rather extreme, but—forgive me—I saw no other way. I know very little about you, sir, and what I do know does not seem to be suited to fatherhood."

"I could say the same of you, Monsieur."

Philippe nodded civilly. "Touché."

Slowly, the leer faded from Erik's face and he grew quite serious. "Jean-Paul is a good child, like your brother was. He is smart, as well, and will make a fine Comte someday, whether he lives with you or with us. However," Erik continued, "he is only three. He needs his mother. Whatever your opinion of me or Christine, do not make him suffer for it."

The Comte turned weary eyes to the fireplace, then rose and strode over to the mantle. Upon the mantle was a replica of the _Borda,_ the training vessel Raoul had served aboard for several years. He ran the tip of his finger along the tiny mainmast and rigging, his face etched with sorrow. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he patted the dampness from his refined brow. Finally, he turned back to Erik.

"Summers," he said in a weary voice muffled by the handkerchief. "Send Jean-Paul to the chateau during the summer months, and he shall retain his father's title."

Erik's thin fingers tightened around the lasso, then tucked it away beneath his cloak. He leaned back in the plush chair and thoughtfully studied his anxious companion. "Christine will agree to one month annually, provided she is allowed to accompany him."

Philippe sighed, obviously displeased. Nevertheless, he graciously acquiesced. "You would be welcome too, of course."

Erik's lips pursed sardonically. "I doubt that. However, thank you all the same." He watched as Philippe exhaled in relief, tucking away his handkerchief.

"Well then," the Comte said, not quite trusting his voice, "give my fondest regards to Madame Reinard and prayers for wellbeing when the child comes. She had a difficult time of it when Jean-Paul was born, from what I understand."

"I have been told." Erik rose, briefly grasping the Comte's offered hand then pulling his away just as rapidly, in a hurry to be on his way. Philippe walked him to the door, making no more attempts at polite discourse.

"I wish you and your family all the best," the Comte said crisply. "In all honesty, I do not think that we shall meet much after this."

"_Adieu_, Monsieur de Chagny," Erik answered. He slipped his cloak over his shoulders and strode to the waiting brougham, determined to leave Paris behind him once and for all.

ooOOoo

In truth, though the Comte's warning regarding Christine's difficult labor struck a chord within him, Erik's centermost fear lay upon his child's—their child's—unknown face. If he had to watch his child grow up to experience the same sort of terror and rejection that he had endured, the guilt would be too much. As Christine's time drew nearer, however, and she grew wearier, her face more white and drawn, Philippe's words were pushed to the forefront. Soon, he found himself silently praying not that the infant would be born normal, but that it would be born alive.

When the moment of truth finally arrived one blustery December night and he crouched outside their bedroom door, his wife's cries of pain filling his ears, his petitions became pleas.

_God, I don't care what our child looks like,_ he prayed fiercely,_ whether it has an ugly face or a monster's face, or a face like mine_. _Just **let him live**. Let him live, and let Christine live, and they will always have my love—wretched thing that it is. Let them live, please, let them live. Let them live— _

"What are you doing, Papa?"

A small, inquisitive voice broke through the intensity of his mantra. Erik opened his eyes and gazed at the solemn, anxious face of his three-year-old son. Brushing a hand over his eyes, he took the young Vicomte's hand in his and led him away from the door and the sounds of his mother's labor.

"I was asking God to take care of your Maman and the baby," he answered honestly. Settling into the faded chair with the broken spring, he pulled Jean-Paul up next to him, ignoring the metal as it dug into his back.

"Oh," said the boy thoughtfully. He was quiet for a moment, and Erik could all but see the wheels churning in his head. "Why is Maman mad at you?" he asked finally.

"What makes you think Maman is mad at me, Jean-Paul?"

"She told you to go."

Erik sighed and smoothed a pale hand over his clever son's hair. Christine, in her bohemian ways, had originally planned to discard convention and allow her husband's presence when their child was born. It had seemed like a good idea, but plans were hardly ever ideally executed.

"Because I was bothering your mother and Gospazha Borochova, and making a horrible nuisance of myself. And we know what happens when we make nuisances of ourselves."

Jean-Paul nodded empathically. "Maman gets angry when I am naughty. But it goes away."

"Your mother is an infinite resource of understanding."

Another cry echoed from the closed door. Jean-Paul whimpered and wrapped his small arms around Erik's neck, pressing his face against his shoulder. He rested there in silence for so long, that Erik thought he had fallen asleep. The only sound in the homely parlor was the snapping of the fire and the faint strains of Russian from the bedroom as Rivka Borochova encouraged and soothed the struggling mother. Erik's arms wound tightly about the child, fighting the overwhelming urge to go back to the room he had been evicted from.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Jean-Paul?"

"Is Maman hurt?"

"Well, she—" Erik momentarily panicked, struggling to come up with a satisfactory answer for the boy. "Your Maman is working very hard right now, so you can have a little brother or sister."

"When I get hurt, Maman kisses me and then I get better."

"When everything is over," Erik promised, "you can give her a kiss. It will make her feel better, I am sure."

Jean-Paul relaxed, apparently satisfied. "I want a brother."

A smile played upon Erik's lips and, fleetingly, he was able to forget his fears. "I think you must be content with whatever your sibling is."

The entire night passed and then part of the morning before Christine's long labor drew to a close. Jean-Paul had long ago drifted off to sleep on the hearthrug. Ze'ev Borochov, his own two children wrapped in furs upon his back, had trekked through the snow to the reclusive cottage at first light, only to find that Rivka was nowhere near finished in her assistance to Madame Reinard. The two men sat in complete, uncomfortable silence for several hours, grimly listening as Christine's strained cries became more and more frequent. Erik's head dropped into his hands, his fingers threading through his black, unkempt hair. Never had he felt so entirely helpless to act; for all his knowledge, and skill, and understanding of medicine, only time and patience were of any use to his wife.

Finally, one last, drawn-out scream sent him over the edge. Leaping up from his chair, he pushed through the closed door and went to Christine's side, ready to beg her forgiveness for leaving her alone. Clasping her hand in his, he wiped the wet strands of hair from her ashen forehead with his other.

"Christine, Christine, my brave wife," he soothed, lifting her fingers to his face. And then he halted, Christine's hand brought only halfway to his lips: a shrill, high-pitched wail resonated through the room.

"Thank God," Christine sobbed, her damp head falling back in part exhilaration and part exhaustion. "The baby is fine, Erik! He is all right! He wasn't crying, and I was so afraid—"

"We haven't even seen him yet," he said dazedly. His eyes closely followed Rivka as she finished her work, carefully avoiding any glimpse of the child's face. Smiling, the woman whispered gentle Russian words to the infant, tucked the cloth more tightly around it, and placed the red, squirming thing in Christine's outstretched arms.

"Look at our baby, Erik," Christine murmured with delight. "Open your eyes!" She nudged him with her shoulder and he did as she asked. His gaze swept over the tiny infant in his wife's arms, his heart pounding as he took in its beautifully flawless nose, pink lips, splotchy cheeks. His child's eyes were mere slits of unfocused blue burrowed in its squashed face. Erik watched, awed, as the wide irises struggled to take in the new world around him, to make sense of color, and air, and light.

"My son," he whispered incredulously. "My perfect, brilliant—"

A thought suddenly struck him, and he realized with chagrin that he had not yet obtained a vital piece of information from the Russian midwife.

"_Malchik_?" he inquired.

Gospazha Borochova shook her head and smiled, her dark eyes shining with laughter. "_Devochka_."

Erik blinked several times, the impact rocking him back on his heels as the image of his genius son—subconsciously conjured for months on end—bid him a swift farewell. Touching a long, thin finger to the infant's cheek, he began to chuckle softly.

"What is it?" Christine asked, her own joy-filled eyes never leaving the yawning face of her little one.

"Christine," Erik breathed. "We have a daughter."

ooOOoo

May, 1886: The High Tatras, Bohemia 

The overcast sky was a welcome sight when the heavily wooded trail broke through the mass of larches and spruce. Christine followed her husband and son as the path emptied into a clearing entirely carpeted with yellow crocus.

Christine's breath caught in her throat. The Carpathian Mountains stretched before them, their snow-capped peaks blindingly white and remote, like an untouchable sphere held just beyond reach. She paused to inhale the smell of dank earth and air. It had been a long time since she had truly been out-of-doors—first the long winter months, and then days of rain and muck that had followed. But now that Lina was a bit older, and the weather warmer…

Evelina. Christine smiled as she remembered Erik's strange, stubborn insistence that their daughter be named such. It meant 'life', he had explained, and as their little girl was now life to him, it seemed fitting. Upon further prying, he told her that he had once met a man in the Rumeli Hisari who had a little girl called by the same name, and it had left an impression upon him. He refused to tell her anything more, however, and she wisely decided not to press him about it. Erik would always have his mysteries.

So 'Evelina' it was, and 'Evelina' certainly suited Christine's very fidgety, very vocal daughter.

"Maman!" shouted her other very vocal child—now no longer a toddler, but a wild boy of nearly four. "The lake is this way!" Ahead of her, she saw Erik turn to her son and say something to him, pointing to the ground. Jean-Paul cupped his hands over his mouth, calling to her again. "Papa says to watch out for the mud!"

Christine readjusted her little girl in the cloth sling that Rivka had fashioned for her and hurried to catch up with the rest of her family, carefully sidestepping the rich brown mud along the path. When she finally joined them, they were already busy spreading out an old quilt on a dry patch of grass. Settling onto the ground with her daughter, she closed her eyes and listened to the soft breathing of her child.

It was difficult to fathom that only a year had passed since she had walked the hot, dusty streets of Jerusalem. Had it really been so little time? Every single one of the friends she had shared crowded quarters with at the Notre Dame de Sion, save her little boy and her husband, had all but vanished from her life in the course of that year, separated by skewing paths or by death.

She thought of Norry, the gruff old servant who had valiantly tried to protect her as she fled from country to country. The loss of his only child had been too much for him. He was now content simply to finish the remainder of his years amongst his flower gardens and vegetables.

And Nadir Khan, with his protective, sometimes overbearing ways. Yet he had been thus for a reason, and his fight to see Erik use his genius for good resonated deep within her. She saw very little of him now, only twice since they had parted ways in Paris—once when he had traveled to the Tatras to claim Erik for service to France, and once when Erik had returned. Even then, he had only stayed two nights. It had been long enough, nonetheless, for Christine to witness the gleam of pride in his eyes after holding his friend's infant daughter for the first time.

She thought of Henri David, her naïve, boyish advocate who had been more in love with love than with her. Enamored, he would have blindly followed her to the ends of the earth, desperately snatching up the crumbs of friendship she offered him like a starved puppy, had she not crushed his illusions of love that fateful night in Prague. Christine could not help but think that if she had allowed Henri to follow her to Istanbul, he might still be alive. Grimacing, she quickly shook the thought away. While many might bear some responsibility in poor Henri David's demise, it was Mas Quennell who had ultimately killed him. Dwelling on the sad affair would not bring resolution, only more grief.

Lina yawned. Christine tucked the swaddling cloth more tightly around her tiny body. She smiled down upon her beautiful daughter, noticing for the first time the small flecks of gold forming in her eyes. _Erik is wrong_, she mused with sheer fascination. _She has inherited something of his face._ Christine suddenly found herself aching to share her discovery with her lost friend, Papillon Nitot.

Papi would have treasured her little girl, just as she had Jean-Paul. Tears stung her eyes as she recalled their last days in Jerusalem—days spent basking in the adoration of her new husband while gingerly walking on glass around her estranged friend.

Papi had loved Raoul: That truth could have made the two women fierce rivals, had there not been a difference in their status. And yet Papi had loved her, as well—she knew that now. Raoul's death had bonded them in a way she had not truly recognized until it was too late. They had both been mothers—alone and struggling along as best as they could to raise their little men without the help of a father. They had both lost the true loves of their lives. Yet through that, they had found each other's friendship.

"Maman! Look at me!"

Christine brushed away the tears from the corners of her eyes and smiled, waving to Jean-Paul. She watched him hop along the edge of the lake, his black curls bouncing as he chased after the lake frogs—now frantically leaping out of his way and into the water. Jean-Paul, satisfactorily muddy, ran up the hill towards her. Erik followed behind, lengthening his stride to keep up with the child's youthful energy. Plopping down on the blanket next to her, Jean-Paul gently patted the top of Lina's head, then began to breathlessly tell her about all of the slimy-skinned amphibians he saw in his romp along the lake. Erik sat next to her as well, casually propping himself up on his elbow and stretching his long legs over the rest of the blanket.

"Jean-Paul," Christine said, "come here, _sil vous plait_." Settling her sleepy-eyed infant on the blanket behind her, she pulled out her handkerchief (a gift from her husband) and tried to wipe a streak of dirt from the squirming boy's face. She frowned at him, and he reluctantly went still until Christine had cleaned away the offending mud to her contentment. The boy scooted away from her hands and turned to Erik, a grin suddenly breaking through his scowl.

"Papa has dirt on his face, too!"

Lifting an eyebrow in mock disdain, Erik pinched the handkerchief from Christine's fingers and brushed it across the left side of his face. "Better?" he asked the boy.

Jean-Paul shook his head. "The other side, Papa." He snatched the cloth from Erik's fingers and reached up towards his white mask. "Let me do it."

The levity of the moment died away as quickly as it had arisen. Before the boy could touch his mask, Erik carefully averted the child's reaching fingers and firmly grasped his hands, pushing them away. Confused, Jean-Paul froze in his pursuit and stared up at his father, his eyes widening.

"Erik," Christine said quietly, silently pleading that Erik would not become angry at the boy's harmless mistake. Anguish, however, not anger, was clearly written in his face. Erik simply sighed and turned his face from her, looking out across the lake.

Her little son's inquisitive nature, however, was not so easily waylaid.

"Is that a mask?" Jean-Paul questioned.

Erik stilled. "Yes. It is not real, you see?" he tapped on the rigid piece of porcelain, then allowed the boy to run his fingertips over the cool surface, exploring the contours of the mask, the eyehole, the cheekbone. "My real face is beneath the mask," he explained.

The child looked perplexed. "Papa, why can't people see your real face?"

The only sign that Erik had heard him was a slight twinge in his jaw.

"Papa?"

"Because, I—" he answered unevenly, "Because you cannot, Jean-Paul."

"Why not?"

Erik gritted his teeth and looked to her for help.

Christine opened her mouth, ready to tell Jean-Paul to leave Erik be and go play. The words died upon her lips, however. Maybe she was weary of seeing the ever-present, aching mix of hope and despair that haunted Erik's eyes, or the way he coldly turned away from her son at the slightest mention of his mask. But some mad character seized control of her—insanity, or determination—and for a moment, the words that she very nearly spoke, _Let him see you, Erik. He will understand. He will love you anyway_, seemed as though they belonged to another.

Yet in the end, she did not utter them. After all, it was not her face—her secret—to tell. So she sent the boy away, telling him that he was not to ask such questions. When he was gone, she lifted Evelina into her lap.

"Someday they must know, Erik," she said as she played with her daughter's little fingers. "Both of our children."

Her words hung there in the stillness, the cool May breeze suddenly heavy and stifling. Horror filled Erik's features and he shook his head.

"Christine, please don't ask it of me."

"They will need to know the truth."

"They won't want to know the truth! They will hate me for it—"

"Can I go back to the lake?" Jean-Paul interrupted, running back to the blanket. "I want to find another frog."

"Of course." Erik numbly rose to his feet and followed the child. Christine watched as they strolled down to the water's edge and took up their exploration of the shoreline, as if the nearly earth-shattering moments had not even happened. Jean-Paul pointed to something in the tall grass—Christine could only assume it was a frog—and made a dive for it. The frog, however, leapt free, leaving the boy with a face full of sod. Erik took out his handkerchief, then tucked it away again in resignation as the filthy child urged him to follow further along the lake.

Christine laughed at Jean-Paul's childish antics, her heart pounding with love for her son until she thought it would break. For at that moment, as he ran along the lake's edge, she saw another little boy…a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy, splashing into the cold Brittany sea after a red scarf.

Raoul. Her dearest friend, who had offered her everything, yet asked for nothing in return. There was a time she had thought it had been wrong of her to marry him. As she watched Raoul's child walk over to Erik—a man cruelly shunned by humankind as a monster—and trustingly place his small hand in his, she knew that she had made no mistake.

When she had dreamed of the Brittany coast, allowed her memories of times past to embrace her with warm familiarity, Raoul had been there with her. He had told her that to save Erik, she would have to help him face himself.

It would not be her, however, that would one day do the seemingly impossible.

It would be her son.

Somehow, Providence had taken the most wretched of lives and woven them together, turning that which was once ugly and despondent into something beautiful. Something right.

Christine closed her eyes and let the spring wind skimming over the waters touch her face, cooling her flushed cheeks and neck.

Somewhere beyond her, she heard the soft, steady breathing of her little girl. The laughter of her son. The kind, lilting words of the man she loved. Somewhere beyond her, the quiet waters of the Tatras' lake lapped and rippled, its placid music interrupted only by the faraway splashing as two sets of feet trod along its shore. Somewhere beyond her…

And she felt such peace.


	42. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

**Epilogue**

**The Stage of the Paris Opera House, 1911**

"Sold! Your number, sir? Thank you." The rotund auctioneer crisply bowed to the bidder, then turned back to his small audience upon the darkened opera house stage. "Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of _Hannibal_ by Chalumeau."

"Showing here." The porter unfurled a faded promotional depicting a bejeweled elephant and held it up for the gathering's scrutiny.

"Do I have ten francs?" continued the auctioneer. "Five then. Five I am bid…six…seven. Against you, sir, seven." The auctioneer turned to the august gentleman, newly mustachioed and smartly dressed in fine wool and a top hat. The young man lifted a gloved hand. "Eight," said the auctioneer. "Eight once. Selling twice." The man rapped his gavel. "Sold, to the Vicomte de Chagny. Thank you, sir."

Jean-Paul nodded to the auctioneer, his eyes glinting with the sport of the bid.

The frail, wheelchair-bound man at his side, however, tut-tutted in disapproval. "Whatever will you do with such an impractical thing, my boy?"

"I shall hang it on the wall of the music room at the chateau, Uncle, directly above Mother's lovely Steinway."

The old Comte snorted. "I suppose the piece would be somewhat complimentary to your bizarre collection of bagatelles from the world over. Not one thing matches the other."

"Therefore, they all match perfectly."

Philippe only shook his head at his nephew's offbeat witticism, now entirely accustomed to his eccentricities. Given the way the boy had been raised—traveling from country to country, never residing in one place more than a year at a time—it was no wonder he was something of an anomaly in France's aristocratic circle.

"She was in _Hannibal_, you know," Jean-Paul continued. "On this very stage."

"Yes. How could I possibly forget? Your father lost all reason the minute he saw her, he was so smitten."

Jean-Paul exhaled wistfully, thinking of the father he had known only through the stories told to him by his family. He was now older than Raoul de Chagny had been when he was untimely cut down, in the spring of 1884. A shadow flickered across his eyes. It was hard to fathom that the daring, brash man he had come to idolize had not seen as many days as he. A son did not like to think of his father as being destructible.

And then there was his stepfather—the only father he had ever known—a man who truly seemed to be indelible.

"Lot 664," the auctioneer's voice droned on, " a wooden pistol and three human skulls from the 1831 production of _Robert le Diable_ by Meyerbeer."

To Jean-Paul, his stepfather had also been something of a demigod. Genius in every aspect, Erik Reinard had taught him and his younger siblings about music, art, science, cultures, nearly everything imaginable. Everything, except for what lay beneath the white mask. It was simply understood by all of them that one did not ask questions about his face. With time, his father began to indulge some of their curiosities, however vague his answers were; such as "My face is not like others", or "It is too frightening for young eyes."

When Jean-Paul was sixteen, he had a particular row with his father. He had just returned from university, and was home for a brief visit until he went to _Le Château de Chagny_ for a month with his uncle.

In his first year at the university, a drive—no, passion—had awakened within him to search for a cause in life other than scholarship and music. One of his fellow mates had dragged him to a clandestine meeting sponsored by many of the aristocratic sons he had crossed paths with in his uncle's circles. They were a Jacobin brotherhood, they explained—a society of men from all walks of life, whose fathers and fathers' fathers had influenced and financed for nearly a century. It was a shock, of course, for Jean-Paul to discover that his own father, Raoul de Chagny, had once been a member of this secret brotherhood. The old Comte had never mentioned them, and his parents _certainly_ had not.

When Erik unearthed his son's involvement with this Fraternité through inexplicable sources, he was livid.

"If you persist to associate with these imbeciles, Jean-Paul, you will _not_ be returning to university," he had said forebodingly, his yellow eyes snapping with anger.

"I see that you have set that old Persian daroga on my trail again," Jean-Paul had shot back. "How very predictable of you—you must always know absolutely every detail of my life, but tell me nothing of your own! You leave for weeks at a time to places you cannot disclose, for purposes you keep only to yourself—"

"You are my son, Jean-Paul. I have a right to know what trouble you are getting yourself into."

"I am not your son," he spat. "I am a Chagny."

Regret had instantly filled him when he saw the hurt in his father's eyes. Youthful pride would not let him take back the words, however, and they hung there in the silent room, the venom of them permeating the air.

"What is it you would like to know?" Erik finally asked.

"I want to know what your face looks like. I'd like to see my _father_—not a mask."

"No."

Jean-Paul stared at the imposing man before him, trying to read his carefully hidden thoughts. "Why will you not let me see your face? Is it that you don't trust me?"

"I have my reasons."

The young man laughed bitterly. "That is what you always say."

After that, the discussion came to an abrupt end.

So Jean-Paul had next turned to his mother in regard to the 'Fraternité' issue. His quiet, beautiful mother, with her smiling eyes and loving ways, had taken him by the hand and told him something he had never forgotten:

"Someday you will understand that parents often feel as though they are sending their children into a wide, turbulent sea with very little to guide them—even from the moment they are born," she said gently. "We know we must let you choose your course on your own, yet when we see that you are about to sail headlong into a storm, we cannot help but offer guidance: our own charts and compass, so to speak."

It was then that Jean-Paul was told the story of his family's involvement with the Fraternité and the tragedy it had brought to them. Vague snatches of memory began to sharpen when placed in context: crossing the ocean on a monstrous ship; white, sandy streets packed with robed vendors and camels; a city bridge stretching across a river, teeming with artists, musicians, and a particular bohemian organ grinder with a trained Persian monkey…

"You never brought me the music box," Jean-Paul had said suddenly.

His mother looked at him, perplexed. "What music box?"

"The one in Paris with a barrel organ and a monkey. I remember you telling me about it."

Christine laughed lightly. "Such a memory you have, Jean-Paul! I had forgotten my promise to have your Papa fetch it for you from the opera house…"

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals."

The announcement of the next lot at once yanked Jean-Paul back to the present. It, after all, was his sole purpose for attending the Populaire's auction.

"This item," exclaimed the auctioneer, "discovered in the vaults of the theatre: still in working order."

"Showing here." The porter held up the music box and turned the handle.

"May I start at twenty francs?"

Jean-Paul indicated, then turned cool eyes upon his competition, silently letting them know he would be winning the item and it was useless to up the bid.

"Fifteen, then? Fifteen I am bid. Sold, for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Chagny. Thank you, sir."

Jean-Paul took the music box monkey from the porter, staring with wonder at the antiqued thing he had heard about so often. It was finely crafted, right down to the tiny gold embroidery around its vest. He had never really seen anything like it before.

"Well now, my boy," he uncle grunted, "you have what you came for. If we are to be on time for your debut gala, we must be on our way." The Comte's words fell on deaf ears, however. For at that moment, Jean-Paul's eyes were riveted to the monstrous tarp-covered object being unveiled for bidding.

"Lot 666, then," continued the auctioneer, gesturing to the object, "a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained…"

The old Comte "harrumphed." Inclining his grizzled head to his nephew, he whispered: "This pile of crystal is that grotesque thing your stepfather caused such a stir with. I remember thinking it was more than ostentatious to begin with, when the opera house first opened. One of Garnier's additions, no doubt."

"…Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of how it may look when reassembled…"

"They'll not get a sou back of the fortune they spent to restore that hideous thing, I guarantee it!" exclaimed Philippe.

"Now gentlemen, let us start our bidding at thirty thousand francs? Fifteen thousand, I am bid…Thirty thousand…"

"Fifty, Monsieur." Jean-Paul lifted his hand. He turned to his uncle (who was rather close to having a fit of apoplexy) and grinned. "We can hang it in the chateau ballroom."

ooo

It was some time after the auction had concluded, just as he finished assisting his uncle into the estate's new Renault limousine and bid the fuming man farewell, that he felt a tap upon his shoulder.

"Did you get it?"

Taken aback, Jean-Paul whirled around and came face to face with his sister. Dressed from head to toe in an ensemble befitting a _Couturière Parisienne_ fashion plate, she cut an intimidating figure as she glared at him from beneath the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. Smiling, he placed a quick kiss upon her cheek and offered her his arm.

"A pleasure to see you too, Lina," he exclaimed flippantly. "I am very much enjoying my time in Paris—thank you for inquiring. Uncle Philippe is grand, also. We plan to rub elbows with the _best_ of society tonight, you know, so I mustn't spend all evening 'dallying about the opera house'—so he said. Shall we take a stroll?"

The young woman slapped her brother's arm in irritation, but still followed his lead along the Rue Scribe. "Good Lord, Jean-Paul, just answer my question. Did you win the music box or not?"

"Yes, and it was exactly as mother had described it! I sent it back to the town home, along with a few other purchases."

"Good."

Jean-Paul glanced at his sister and saw that the ice had begun to thaw from her gold eyes.

Evelina had always been something of a cool, distant person. That, combined with her intellect and love for expensive clothing, often overawed those who did not know her. More than once, he had inadvertently heard one of his lads compare her to a Greek statue: all beauty and no warmth. Jean-Paul, however, knew that beneath her icy exterior was a fierce loyalty to him and the rest of the family. His sister was more than capable of love. But at twenty-five years, no man, in her eyes, had yet measured up to her standards of brilliance. It exasperated her mother. Her father, however, felt nothing but relief at her lack of suitors.

"Papa was sorry to be missing your Paris debut last night," she said. "He knew how important this particular concert was to you. You played tremendously, Jean-Paul. The _Suite Bergamasque_ was especially fascinating."

"It was of no significance," he lied nonchalantly. "Anyway, he has heard me perform too many times to count. And given the opera house venue, I could hardly blame him for not being there."

"That doltish, meddlesome journalist! Why did he have to go rooting around through Papa's past, anyhow? Now he can hardly go anywhere without some idiotic creature asking him if he is the Opera Ghost."

"It isn't as if people didn't stare at him before, Lina," Jean-Paul said diplomatically. "Besides, you can hardly fault M. Leroux. Such a fantastic story was bound to be unearthed sooner or later."

"And pestering poor M. Khan when he was practically on his deathbed," she went on, ignoring Jean-Paul's reasoning. "At least the Persian had the sense to tell that wicked man that Papa was dead, or he would be hounded by Leroux's readers until he truly was in his grave! Why Nadir had to say anything at all—" Evelina sniffed, and paused to push up her lace-trimmed parasol as if she were snubbing all of Paris itself.

"Lina," Jean-Paul cajoled, "M. Khan must have had a cause for doing so, like Father said. And if Father does not blame him, we cannot, either." The Vicomte knew, though, that it was much easier to say than to actually do. In fact, when he had first been handed several issues of M. Leroux's serial in _La Belle Époque_, he had nearly broken from his tour venue in Berlin to return to Paris and demand an explanation from their old family friend.

His mother, however, had anticipated him. As he was packing his bags, he received a telegram from her, kindly asking him to postpone any hasty action until he had spoken with his father.

Her message also served to remove any lingering doubt as to whether _Le Fantome de l'Opera_ was truly his beloved Papa; she had all but confirmed it. Even after he received her telegram, he had a difficult time associating the masked man who had loved him and guided him with the deadly trapdoor-lover of Persia. And undoubtedly, he could not picture him as the criminal who had kidnapped his mother and nearly murdered his natural father.

So Jean-Paul had done as his mother had requested. When he concluded his run in Berlin, he returned to his childhood home in the High Tatras to discover the long-withheld truth about his father, _from_ his father.

"So, you want to know whether the story is true. Is that it?" The silver-haired man did not even turn around when Jean-Paul entered his library. Seated in his old armchair next to the fire, he waved a pale, bony hand towards the empty chair across from him. Jean-Paul sat down.

"Was the journalist correct? Are you _him_?"

Erik leveled his yellow eyes upon his son. "What do you think?"

"I—" He swallowed. "I think it must be true. Most of it, anyhow."

Erik nodded. "As you can see for yourself, I am still alive. But the majority of it—aside from several ridiculous sensationalisms writers so love to employ—is accurate."

"And the ending?"

"My death was a ruse created years ago to protect our family. Given my despotic past, as well as my current occupation, it was a necessity."

"And what is your current occupation?" Jean-Paul inquired cautiously.

"Surely you must have had determined the nature of my career by now."

"I have always had my suspicions."

Erik mouth curled ironically. "My work with the _Sûreté_, like M. Leroux's Shade, is considered to be one of those little 'state services' that those in positions of authority usually keep under lock-and-key. In fact, I think it very possible that if Leroux indeed stumbled upon evidence of the Shade, he also discovered a bit more about my existence than the _Sûreté_ was willing to admit to."

"Do you think that is why the Persian gave Leroux an interview? To prevent him from publishing the rest of the story?"

"I do," said Erik, his eyes growing somber at the mention of his deceased friend. "Despite our differences, Nadir Khan was a good friend. He would not have betrayed me out of maliciousness."

Jean-Paul exhaled, relieved. He had not wanted to think the old daroga capable of duplicity, but given the frightening account …

The young man's gaze fell upon his father's masked face. Leroux had described his father as nothing short of a monster—a living corpse. Jean-Paul, however, had never seen his face. He knew what the next logical question was, but dared not…

"You are an intelligent man," his father said evenly. "You know the answer already."

"Your face," Jean-Paul faltered. "Is it as bad as all that?"

"Perhaps you would like to judge for yourself?"

Jean-Paul could only nod 'yes'. Suddenly, the one thing he had longed to know all of his remembered life seemed like a dreadful prospect. Slowly, Erik rested one hand on his mask; the other slid behind his neck and loosed an almost invisible thread that held it in place. He lowered the cold piece of porcelain from his twisted visage and closed his eyes, waiting for Jean-Paul's reaction.

Jean-Paul gaped at the strange-looking, horrific face before him, his eyes wide. Yet he could not tear them away from the warped flesh, the sunken cheek, and the half-nose that had been hidden for so long.

And then his father, who still held bated breath, exhaled and opened his yellow eyes. The slight, startling movement was enough, however. For all of his twenty-eight years, Jean-Paul leapt back from the frightful sight like a panic-stricken child and stumbled out of the cottage into the glaring sunlight. Overwhelmed, he collapsed over the top of his knees as his insides flipped over and over until they could not longer hold their contents, and he became sick. After several minutes, he pushed himself off of the ground and pressed his face into his clammy palms.

Before long, he heard the door open and footsteps unhurriedly make their way along the gravel path, halting directly behind him.

"I am sorry—" Jean-Paul moaned. Rather, began to moan. Before he could finish the sentiment, a torrent of icy water splashed down upon his head, drenching him through and chilling him to the bone. Abashed, he peered up at his father through the rivulets of water running from his hair. Mask now replaced, Erik was clutching an empty rain bucket and looking down at him with a mix of annoyance and concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Jean-Paul nodded, his chattering teeth making speech impossible.

Erik sighed. "My apologies. I had forgotten that your stomach was as weak as your mother's. But really, there was nothing more I could have done to warn you."

"T-Thank y-you," the young Vicomte stuttered, wrapping his trembling arms tightly about him for warmth. "Thank you f-for showing m-me."

Erik peered at him. "You do not hate me for it?"

Jean-Paul shook his head. "Why should I? You are my father."

Erik's mouth curled into a smile. "I am very, very pleased to hear that," he murmured.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Just thinking aloud." His father reached down and helped him to his feet. "Come on. You had best dry off before Christine finds out what I have done..."

Leroux's novel had been printed nearly a year ago.

Since then, the growing publicity of the book had taken its toll on his family—both the Chagnys and the Reinards. Now, wherever he performed, he was known more for being the progeny of 'the opera singer and her lover from that French novel', rather than an accomplished concert pianist. Luckily, his younger siblings were able to maintain relative anonymity under the protection of their unfamiliar name. His father and mother, however, were not so fortunate.

Up until the time _Le Fantome de l'Opera_ was published, Paris had all but forgotten the strange affair that had occurred at the opera house. Now, however, public scrutiny had forced his parents back into hiding. They knew all too well that it would only take one diligent reader with the time and means to search the public records for any mention of one Christine de Chagny, née Daaé, and uncover her trail. So his parents had retreated from Bratislava to their Tatras mountain cottage for the winter months, and had decided to stay there, once and for all.

His mother…

Jean-Paul turned his face up to the dome of the opera house, his gaze spanning its grandiose ornamentation along the edge of the roof, finally coming to rest upon the great bronze Apollo and his lyre. Shielding his eyes from the sun's gleam, he studied the statue, trying to picture his mother as Christine Daaé—then, only a young chorus girl of eighteen—pledging her love to Raoul de Chagny…and with each quiet word, unknowingly destroying the teacher who secretly clung to the shadows.

She had been ill that past spring—truly ill, for the first time that he could remember. Bed-ridden and delirious, her family had been told by the physician that if her fever persisted, she would not survive.

That night was one of only two occasions Jean-Paul could recall his father crying; the first was but a hazy memory from an event he could not place. His straight-backed, confident demeanor gone, Erik had looked all of his seventy years. It was then that the son realized his father had actually grown old.

Eventually, his mother's fever broke and she had lived, but her illness had truly terrified his father. After that, he had retired from his service to the _Sûreté_ once and for all, vowing to live the rest of his days the way he wanted to. "I only have so much time," Erik had explained to his children, "and I am not going to throw away my last years on a cause that will not matter two months from now."

In the weeks after her illness, his parents would often walk along their mountain lake, simply enjoying the other's company. Jean-Paul had watched them one afternoon, unobserved, from the hill. His mother, shawl wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders, had leaned on his father's arm for support. He had brushed his fingers over her dark curls, now streaked with gray, and placed a tender kiss on top of her head. And then she had smiled up at him, her love plainly written across her face.

That image, now burned in his mind, was how Jean-Paul would remember them.

"Jean-Paul." Evelina shook his arm, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Hmmm?"

"You haven't even been listening to me!" His sister sighed in vexation. "I said, _I think we are being watched_. Look at that automobile, just sitting there at the brougham entrance. See? I can make out somebody peering through the curtains!" Before Jean-Paul could respond, Evelina, in a fury, closed her parasol and strode over to the parked automobile, ready to demand an explanation.

"Lina!" Jean-Paul began to run after her, calling to her to be careful. As he neared the motorcar, however, realization struck him. A smile spread across his face and he slowed down, leisurely peering into the curtained windows next to his sister. He tapped on the glass. The door opened and Jean-Paul stooped over to see its occupants.

"This is quite the contraption you have acquired, Father." He glanced over the sleek black and burgundy Rolls Royce import, its brassy lanterns and clean wheels, and whistled. "Expensive, too. How many francs did you put down for it? Too many, I'd venture."

Inside the automobile cab sat his parents. Both were dressed to the nines in their finest eveningwear: his mother, her hair elegantly curled and pinned, the row of diamonds around her white neck sparkling in the lowlight of the cab; and his father, tailored and meticulous as ever in his white tie and tails.

Evelina scowled at her brother. "I think the Rolls is extraordinary, Papa. Hello, Maman."

"My dear," Christine said warmly, leaning out of the cab and kissing her eldest daughter's cheek.

"Besides, Jean-Paul," Evelina continued, "you are a great one to talk. Papa, you will never believe what Jean-Paul has just purchased!"

Erik smiled at his eldest daughter. "Why not tell your mother and me all about it as we drive?" He reached a gloved hand out and helped her into the automobile cab, then slid over to leave room for his son.

"Where are we going?" Jean-Paul asked as he climbed into the car and settled into the seat next to his father.

"To your debut gala, of course. I would be keen on hearing an encore of your _Suite Bergamasque_." Erik frowned. "Or would you rather your mother and I not attend this time?"

"No, no, I am glad you are here," Jean-Paul replied, perplexed. "But—forgive me, I am confused. You _never _go to Paris. I thought…"

"You thought I wouldn't attend your Paris debut last night, simply because it was at the _Opéra Populaire_?" Erik finished.

Jean-Paul nodded.

Erik chuckled quietly, his eyes crinkling in amusement. He grasped Christine's hand and the two shared some private joke between them. "My boy, if there was ever a venue in which I could enjoy a performance unseen or undisturbed, it is the Paris Opera House. There is a particular box that I am quite fond of—perhaps you know it?"

Jean-Paul's brow furrowed with concentration. Then comprehension dawned and he sat there, foolishly simpering like a schoolboy. Why had he ever doubted that his father would be there for one of the greatest performances of his life? In the end, out of all the acclaim, fame, and fortune his music had given him, only one man's opinion truly mattered. His teacher's. The man who had brought music to his life for as long as he could remember.

"Box five," Jean-Paul answered. "Box five is always the best."

_Fin _

A_/N: Again, a final thank you to all of you that have followed this story, read it, and offered such wonderful encouragement! I truly have appreciated every single review, and you all have done a great deal towards pushing me to finish this story._

_Thank you to phantomy-cookies for her inspired reviews of every single chapter, her delightful wanking with love of my writing, and her assistance betaing when called upon._

_And of course, I am so very grateful to the incredibly talented women who have edited my work, talked shop with me, and helped me to brainstorm when I was in a muddle: my betas, Barefoot Advocat and Le Chat Noir. You both have really helped me to become a better writer._

_I will be revising some earlier chapters of Fraternité, but no major overhauls. So if, someday, you should happen to get a Fraternité update, sorry—it won't be a continuation :) Perhaps a one-shot someday if I want to revisit the characters, but this is the end, folks._

_My next project will be the 1920s Hollywood tale, "Golden Day," so add it to your story alerts if you'd like to follow it. This story will be updated as I have time, what with graduate school getting my attention. It will be very loosely based on the POTO story, with only the fundamental thematic elements recognizable. In other words, it will be more original story than POTO-based. However, as it will still have some recognizable POTO elements, I'll leave it in the POTO category._

_Again, thank you for taking the trip with me, and be sure to share your thoughts on the story!_


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